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FIGHTING WESTWARD 












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_ THE YOUNG PIONEERS '_ 

I 

Fighting Westward 


BY 


ALINE HAVARD 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 


/ 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

1923 





Copyright, 1923, by 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Y 


Printed in the United States of America 


Published September, 1923 



SEP 10 ’23 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

L The Henry Family . i 

11 . Dick and Dave .i8 

III. In the Pawnees" Country .... 34 

IV. A Hostage of the Sioux.53 

V. The Man from California .... 68 

VI. Indian Justice.81 

VII. Brother and Sister.97 

VIII. The Captives.112 

IX. Dick and the Dakotas.127 

X. White Men"s Daughters . . . . .^ 143 

XL Hard to Choose.160 

XH. The RabbiFs Promise. .177 

XHI. In the Mountains.195 

XIV. Trapper"s Retreat. .211 

XV. Toward Laramie.230 

XVI. Dave"s Good-bye.247 

XVII. The Trail Once More.262 















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ILLUSTRATIONS 


“It’s no use!” he burst out.Frontispiece 

Facing page: 

He crawled and ran and crept up to the young 


buffalo . 134 

Dick led the way up the mountain trail on 

Mandy . 196 

Through the trees were clearly seen a dozen 

Indian lodges . ....... 244 







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,v 


Fighting Westward 


CHAPTER I 

THE HENRY FAMILY 

T he long wagon-train had halted on the prairie. 

Far as the eye could reach, the grassy, undu¬ 
lating levels swept toward the blue horizon. Near 
by, the cattle cropped the long rank grass, and the 
horses and mules, their front legs loosely hobbled 
together for the noonday rest, wandered hungrily 
through the rich pasture land. At the camp’s out¬ 
skirts a watchful rider on a little piebald mare, a 
boy about eighteen, alert and graceful in his easy 
motions, warned back the animals inclined to stray 
too far. The hot summer sun drenched the prairie 
with golden light, and through the coarse grass 
sprang or flew crickets, grasshoppers, lizards and 
dragonflies. 

Ruth Henry stood leaning against one heavy 
wheel of her father’s great canvas-covered prairie- 


I 


2 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


wagon, her blue eyes sometimes fixed on the hazy 
distance, sometimes returning to the four big fawn- 
colored oxen standing immovable, their coats dim 
with dust and caked with mud, their clear, soft, 
patient eyes seeming to wait the never-failing signal 
to start on—ever westward. 

The calico sunbonnet had slipped from Ruth’s 
head to her shoulders, and her hair shone molas¬ 
ses-colored in the sunlight. Her calico dress was so 
faded and grass-stained that it added little to her 
disorder when she laid one arm across the nearest 
ox’s broad, dusty neck, and with a friendly, familiar 
hand scratched his head between the ears. Her arm 
was tanned and burned almost the color of the hide 
she leaned on, but her cheeks, though not full, were 
rosy, and her eyes bright. A grasshopper perched 
on the bare ankle above her moccasined foot. She 
flipped it off, with a quick laugh. The ox heaved 
a sleepy sigh. Ruth spoke to him, hardly doubting 
that he would hear and understand. The four oxen 
were more than beasts of burden, to be yoked and 
unyoked, fed and watered. They were trusted help¬ 
ers, the very mainstay and dependence of the Henry 
family on their wilderness road. 

“You mustn’t be tired yet, Jess,” Ruth told the 
big beast reproachfully. “Why, we’re not half-way 
to Oregon!” 

Then, reflecting, half in fun, half in earnest, that 
Jess probably did not feel as Ruth and her father 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


3 


felt about the great journey, she forbore to insist 
and fell silent, thinking. She was remembering a 
day long ago—seven years gone, for she had been 
but seven years old—when her mother had taken her 
in her arms on the doorstep of their pleasant Ken¬ 
tucky homestead and had told her, with quietly fall¬ 
ing tears, that her father had decided to move on 
again further west. 

“Just as he wanted to move from Virginia, Ruth, 
before you were born,” her mother had said, trying 
to speak steadily. “Now he isn’t satisfied to stay 
here and wants to push on out to Missouri.” 

And even then, while little Ruth had shrunk 
back a moment with fear of the unknown, and had 
pitied her mother and cried with her, she had 
guessed and even shared the longing that drove her 
father from each peaceful home to new fields of 
exploration. Now, seven years later, she had com¬ 
forted her mother once again, undismayed, when 
Adam Henry, a month before, had left Missouri 
for the far west, to follow the Oregon trail. 

Ruth was too like her father not to share his long¬ 
ings; not to understand why, in spite of every hard¬ 
ship, he must press forward across the threshold of 
the wilderness. She shared with him that free, 
adventurous spirit which had driven him out of 
Virginia and across the vast untravelled continent. 
Something thrilled in Ruth now as she looked around 


4 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


her at the wagon-train—at the colonists for Oregon 
resting here on the soil of what would some day be 
called Kansas—still more than twelve hundred miles 
from Oregon. And her father was in all but name 
leader of these four hundred colonists—the very 
first to venture clear across the plains and take their 
families with them, their plowshares and household 
goods, everything staked on the great adventure. In 
spite of threatening perils, in spite of every kind of 
doubt and discouragement, Adam Henry was lead¬ 
ing these people on, not by word or argument, but 
by the steadfast purpose in his heart. To win across 
to Oregon! To have got clear across the continent, 
to have led the way for others! That was what he 
thought of when he put his thoughts together. He 
did not think or know that he was making the year 
1848 great in the history of America. 

Ruth did not put any of this into words, either, 
as she stood there. She felt no more than a dim 
pride in her father, a resolve to keep a good heart, 
and an eagerness to push on. Now that Missouri 
was hundreds of miles behind, she no longer looked 
back toward her old frontier home—the farm at 
the edge of the prairie. Westward her eyes were 
turned, and the slow progress of the train_its sel¬ 

dom varying twelve or fifteen miles a day—seemed 
as slow as the hands of a clock to her restless spirit. 
She was brave enough, if dangers were to be faced, 
but as yet she hardly believed in the dangers. All 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


5 


the fourteen and a half years of her life Ruth’s 
hopes and dreams had been bright ones, her affec¬ 
tions quick and ardent, her loyalty untroubled. She 
had to see black clouds very close at hand and very 
threatening not to believe that they would part harm¬ 
lessly after all, or at worst in a passing storm. Not 
all the laborious, active life of the pioneer’s daugh¬ 
ter had cured her love of happy day-dreams. Now, 
as she still leaned against the wagon-wheel, she 
faintly heard her mother’s voice, where on the far 
side of the wagon she was heating coffee over a little 
brushwood fire. Kate Allardyce’s voice too, she 
caught fragments of, answering Mrs. Henry with 
that docile, patient tone Kate never quite lost even 
when most at ease. 

With sudden decision Ruth turned to join them, 
when a rider on a big black mule trotted up close 
beside her and flung himself off the blanketed back 
with scarcely a glance in Ruth’s direction. The tall, 
big-limbed young man began picking stray wisps of 
grass from the fringes of his worn buckskin frock 
and breeches. His action had the air of being me¬ 
chanical; it suggested that he half wanted to say 
something but was making time because he was un¬ 
willing to begin. His breath came fast, too, almost 
fast enough to impede his speech, though the mule 
was fresh and seemed not to have been ridden hard. 

Ruth had paused at sight of her brother, and 
silently she studied him, her eyes growing grave and 


6 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


troubled. He looked up at last and met her gaze, 
the rawhide rope that made the mule’s bridle twisted 
between his lean, supple hands. The yellow hair 
showing beneath his coon-skin cap was burned flaxen 
and his fair skin, except above the brow, was tanned 
brown. His deep, bright hazel eyes smouldered 
with anger. 

“What is if, Dave?” asked Ruth fearfully. 

“Shan’t tell you,” muttered the bcry, dropping his 
eyes once more. “Get along, there!” He made 
as if to lead on the mule, but Ruth quickly inter¬ 
posed. 

“Oh, Dave, tell me 1 It’ll help some to tell me 1 
I won’t say a word!” She touched his arm, caught 
his hand in hers, drawing him towards her. Sul¬ 
lenly he yielded, but the angry light did not fade 
from his eyes. 

“It’s no use!” he burst out, speaking the more in¬ 
tently for his smothered tone and the breathlessness 
of his own fury. “Doesn’t he know I’m almost 
nineteen years old? Can’t he understand I’m a man 
grown? He wants his own way. I want mine!” 

Ruth held his big, restless hand with all the 
strength of her small fingers, but, torn between two 
loyalties, for a moment she could find no words to 
answer. At last she said, speaking half-breathlessly, 
“What did he want, Dave? What wouldn’t you 
do?” 

The boy pulled away from her, turned to go, head 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


7 

bent, striking at the tall grass with his rawhide whip. 
But after a step he faced about and spoke hotly once 
more. 

“The same old thing! What’s the use in telling 
it 1 He wants to know where I am every hour. He 
wants to give me orders—when to watch, where to 
hunt, when to come in, who to work with. It’s-” 

“He knows best about it all, Dave. He has years 
behind him. He’s trying to help you.” 

Dave did not listen. While she was speaking he 
plunged on: “I won’t stand being treated so 1 Don’t 
I know something, too? Haven’t I come with him 
all the way west from Kentucky? Do I need to be 
told everything as if I were a tenderfoot like Dick 
Ernshaw? Listen! I went out an hour ago with 
the cattle. Father said north was the best pasture 
land, because it was open—no chance of any Pawn¬ 
ees surprising us. I took Bob Danvers and Dick 
with me. But when we’d ridden a bit we found the 
grass poorer and poorer. I wheeled and drove the 
herd west—ahead of the wagon-train. They had a 
good feed and were saved a tramp. Not a Pawnee 
in sight. We’re hardly in Indian country yet, at any 
rate—Allardyce says. Do you think father was 
satisfied? Because I’d disobeyed him he browbeat 
me before Dick—wouldn’t listen to reason or admit 
I’d done well. Dick was ready to follow me any¬ 
where before! And let me tell you, he could do 



8 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


worse than follow me! I’m the best friend that 
youngster’s got.” 

Dave broke off, panting, then rushed on again. 
“I chose to mount guard with Westcott’s lot to-night 
—he did me a good turn yesterday. Father or¬ 
dered me back here without a chance to explain. I 
saw Westcott and the rest smiling as I followed 
like a scared little boy. For so as not to blaze out 
on father then and there I had to hang my head and 
clench my teeth. I’ll get even! I won’t bear it! 
I can ride, shoot, hunt, mount guard, follow the 
trail like any man! Ruth, I’m a man, and not just 
my father’s son!” 

Ruth’s face had clouded with distress as she 
listened. Powerless to change Dave’s thoughts or 
stop his angry tongue, she stood waiting helplessly, 
shrinking before his criticism of the father she loved, 
yet understanding all the irk of petty tyranny to the 
boy who knew himself already an able plainsman, 
welcomed in any adventure, strong, keen and re¬ 
sourceful. For she had heard the men of the wagon- 
train praise her brother, and was proud of him. 

But she could not help him now. Instead of his 
outburst quieting him, it seemed only to have fed his 
anger. His face was sullen; his eyes gleamed, but 
they would not meet his sister’s glance. The black 
mule peaceably pulled off mouthfuls of coarse grass 
and twitched her tail against the thronging flies and 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


9 

gnats. Dave turned to Ruth and spoke a last threat 
through tightened lips. 

“You’ll see: I won’t stand it! Not for any of 
you 1” 

As he spoke, from under the wagon-wheels 
crawled out a boy and a girl about four years old, 
their yellow heads bare, their faces radiant with 
smiles, their brown little bodies clothed in ragged 
homespun. 

“Dave! Dave!” they shouted almost in one voice. 
“Pick us up, Dave! We haven’t seen you all day!” 

“Give me a ride on Blackie, Dave!” cried the boy, 
pushing his twin-sister back with a determined hand. 
“No, ’Wina, you can’t go!” 

Dave drew the mule away from his little brother’s 
and sister’s careless feet, and Ruth, half-fearful of 
Dave’s mood, spoke cautiously. 

“No, Edwin, don’t bother Dave now. Give me 
your hand, Edwina.” 

But as she spoke her eyes were on Dave’s face, 
and at the change she saw there her heart beat more 
freely and a sigh of relief parted her lips. Me¬ 
chanically Dave had drawn the mule away from 
the children, the frown still on his face. But as he 
watched them, as their beaming smiles sought a re¬ 
turn, as their agile little hands caught at the fringes 
of his buckskin breeches, the dark, sullen hardness 
gradually left his face, and his look became frank, 
gay, boyish. He sat down in the long grass among 


10 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


the wild tulips and honeysuckle and pulled the twins 
upon his knees, and like puppies they climbed over 
him with shouts and laughter. Dave let go the black 
mule’s halter, but she did not wander far and kept 
an intelligent eye on her young master as her strong 
teeth tugged at the grass-stems. 

Ruth’s troubled heart almost was at ease. For 
the moment she fancied that Dave had but half 
meant what he said; that his words had spent his 
anger. But in a minute a shout made all four glance 
up again. 

The boy who had been guarding the spare horses 
and mules on the little piebald mare was walking 
toward the Henrys’ wagon, and on the way he gave a 
slap to the black mule to keep her within bounds. 

“I couldn’t let my mare go loose like that, Dave,” 
he said as he came nearer. “I’d never see her 
again. Still, I wouldn’t give her up for your 
Blackie.” He spoke with a strong Southern accent, 
his voice warm and soft. His wide grey eyes were 
alert and friendly, an open smile curved his sensitive 
lips. He looked more than his eighteen years, as 
though recent hardship had brought him courage and 
resolution beyond his nature and his age. There 
was something graceful and deliberate in his move¬ 
ments—a touch of courtliness in his manner which 
set him down as a newcomer into this rough frontier 
life. He looked far fresher from the civilization of 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


11 

the Southern states than did the weather-worn young 
pioneer before him. 

“ ’Lo, Dick,” said Dave. Again he spoke sulkily. 
Dick Ernshaw’s appearance reminded him too keenly 
of his own recent humiliation. But Dick showed no 
signs of recollection. 

“We’re catching up and rolling out again in a 
quarter of an hour,” he said. “We ought to make 
eight miles more this afternoon, old Westcott told 
me. We’ve had good luck this week. They say 
we’ll strike the bend of the North Platte River 
before many days.” 

Ruth sprang to her feet, unwilling that Dave 
should speak again, and caught Edwina’s hand. 

“Come, Dick,” she said. “There’s coffee being 
made beyond our wagon. You’ll want some, too, 
after working all noon. Bring Edwin, Dave.” 

“I’d like some coffee, sure enough, Ruth, if your 
mother can spare me a little,” Dick responded, smil¬ 
ing at the young girl with gentle friendliness. He 
pushed the thick brown hair back from his fore¬ 
head. Ruth, glancing up at him, said impulsively: 

“Dick, I can’t seem to make you belong out here 
with us, somehow. I don’t see why you came.” 

The boy laughed, but his smile did not linger. 
“I’ll tell you sometime why I came,” he said. “But 
don’t say where they can hear you that I’m out of 
place, Ruth. Haven’t I just about managed to make 
them believe I’m of some use? Haven’t they just 


12 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


left off laughing at me? I reckon I could shoot and 
ride when I joined this outfit in Missouri—I learned 
that long ago—but it didn’t help much. You-all 
poked fun at my ignorance.” 

“Dave and I didn’t-” 

“No. You were good to me. Don’t think I’ll 
forget it!” Dick’s grey eyes shone as he spoke. 
“But all the rest—young Taylor, Dave—how he 
tormented me when I chased the antelope last week, 
and when I lighted a big fire at the edge of the 
Pawnees’ country!” 

“Pshaw!” Dave interposed. “Jim Taylor can 
laugh at anything. I never can see the joke in a 
fellow’s not knowing how to do what he’s never 
done. You’ve learned fast enough. What made 
most of the men laugh at you was your manners— 
too civilized for the plains, they thought—but they’re 
forgetting that, too.” 

“I’d like to hear why you left home, Dick,” said 
Ruth softly. “Don’t forget you’re going to tell me.” 

On the other side of the wagon Mrs. Henry and 
Kate Allardyce were sitting beside the dying fire. 
Two stalwart elderly men lay on the grass near by, 
shouting fragments of talk. Another similar group 
was gathered about all the wagons in sight. The 
followers of the long Oregon trail were enjoying 
the last precious minutes of the nooning. 

“Good-day, Mrs. Henry,” said Dick, bowing to 



THE HENRY FAMILY 


13 


Ruth’s mother with the natural grace that Taylor 
had laughed at. “Good-day to you, Kate.” 

Mrs. Henry answered him with a smile, and the 
offer of a tin cup full of hot coffee. Her face, half 
shaded by her sunbonnet, was tanned so deeply that 
her dark auburn hair looked almost as fair as Ruth’s, 
but her eyes were soft and brown—lovely eyes whose 
expression revealed the impetuousness of her Vir¬ 
ginia blood tamed and taught reason by good sense 
and steadfast affection. There was something deli¬ 
cate and line about her slight figure and quick-moving 
hands. She did not look like the wife of a pioneer 
leader. Yet her face was happy, her smile cheerful 
enough to draw a circle of friends about her, and 
she seemed willingly to ignore the hardships that 
had browned her skin, had scarred her arms with 
cuts and burns, and had clothed her in worn home- 
spun and in deerskin moccasins. Whatever secret 
troubles were hidden behind those dark eyes, Mrs. 
Henry’s happy temper kept them from the light of 
every day. 

Her hand now and then touched little Kate Allar- 
dyce’s thin shoulder with a kind gesture. Kate sat 
silent and pensive as usual, her black hair loose 
about her face, her sad, serious eyes raised some¬ 
times in thoughtful gaze. Her glance was bright 
and her lips now and then curved in a half-smile, 
but responsibility had come too heavily at thirteen 
years on this motherless girl, never meant for such 


14 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


hard tasks and such early Independence. Mrs. 
Henry did all she could to lighten Kate’s load on 
the long, hard journey. But, grateful as that help 
was. It could not make again of Kate a happy-hearted 
girl like Ruth. Friends though the two were, Ruth 
never could overcome Kate’s serious, doubtful out¬ 
look on the life before her; could never make the 
little half-orphan share her own dreams and enthu¬ 
siasms. In those two bitter, hard years since her 
mother died, poor Kate had lost her childhood. 

Dave, at sight of his father lying on the grass 
beside Kate’s father, Jonathan Allardyce, had stolen 
away without a word to anyone. Ruth, with the 
tail of her eye, saw him go, and breathed a sigh of 
relief mixed with anxiety. It was but postponed, 
she knew too well—the next clash between father 
and son. 

The two older men got up now and stretched 
their limbs, studying the encampment and the blue, 
hazy sky piled with cottony clouds with the critical, 
keen glance of long experience. The wagons of the 
train, numbering about one hundred and fifty, were 
corailed Into a giant oblong formation, as for de¬ 
fence, but loosely, since as yet the pioneers were 
only on the borders of dangerous country. There 
were wide gaps between the wagons, and the spare 
horses, mules, cows and oxen grazed at will outside 
the camp. 

Adam Henry looked slowly about him, then 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


15 


reached for the halter-rope of the bay horse tied to 
his wagon-wheel and swung himself into the saddle. 

“Time to roll out, Sally,” he told his wife. “Pass 
along the word, Allardyce.” 

He rode slowly into the great grassy space inside 
the wagons, a fine, upright figure, his bare head 
covered with thick, grizzled hair still partly yellow, 
his clear blue eyes wide and far-seeing as a sailor’s. 
Dick Ernshaw watched him with a thrill of boyish 
admiration. That peerless simplicity, the young 
Southerner thought, that look of single-minded pur¬ 
pose, belonged to the born adventurer and colon¬ 
ist. He did not wonder that these hundreds of 
headstrong, quarrelsome, half-ignorant men followed 
the short-spoken, dogged, unyielding old pioneer 
blindly. 

Allardyce shouted down the line, between his thin, 
gnarled hands: “Catch u—up, now! Ro—oil out!” 

The words were picked up and passed on by men’s 
and women’s voices. Allardyce stood watching the 
sudden stir of movement, his shrewd face bent into 
wrinkles as the brilliant sunlight fell on him, his lips 
doubtfully compressed as he watched a sleepy wagon- 
owner struggling with his team. At last he hurried 
toward his own outfit, and as he passed his daughter 
the first gleam of softness lighted his face, weather¬ 
beaten by a long life on the plains. He touched the 
motionless child’s head. 

“Come, Katie,” he said, his voice sounding like 



i6 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


quite another from that which had shouted such 
harsh persuasion to the train. The child rose docilely 
and followed him. 

Now the whole camp was moving. The cry of 
voices urging the oxen on, the crack of whips, the 
creak of wheels, the race of horses’ hoofs, the sound 
of Adam Henry’s orders shouted from among the 
moving train, broke the warm silence of the prairie 
noonday. 

The wagons slowly formed into four crooked 
parallel columns facing west, slowly straightened 
out, took on steady motion. Dick Ernshaw was off 
among the horse and cow train on his little piebald 
mare. Dave was driving the four oxen of his father’s 
wagon. The twins were crawling about inside the 
great wagon itself, where their mother sat with sew¬ 
ing on her knees. Ruth sat beside her brother, whose 
black mule trotted alongside. Dave was silent, but 
Ruth could not keep from crying out at the new 
sights and sounds that with the last few days’ march 
had begun to crowd upon her. A herd of antelope 
fled lightly before the train. A village of barking 
prairie-dogs came to light beside the trail, each dog 
at the mouth of its burrow, holding its paws up in 
a pleading way and yelping. Solemn little grey owls 
were perched beside them, and butterflies flew every¬ 
where, blue, yellow and purple, and fell upon Ruth’s 
knees, fluttering. 


THE HENRY FAMILY 


17 

“Oh, Dave, how strange it is! Where are we 
now? Tell me again!” 

“We’re almost in the valley of the Platte. Fine, 
fertile land. I’ve heard.” Dave still spoke moodily, 
hardly raising his eyes, but seemed to be making an 
effort to shake off his bad temper. “It’s Indian 
country now—sure enough,” he continued. “Paw¬ 
nees. But don’t you be afraid. You’ll hear more 
than prairie dogs now, though, Ruthie. The wolves 
are afoot. We’re gettin’ to the wilderness.” 


CHAPTER II 


DICK AND DAVE 


WELVE miles was what Adam Henry had set 



1 as an average day’s journey on the road be¬ 
tween Missouri and Oregon. Now, through the 
open, fertile country, they often made eighteen 
miles, or even more; but the old pioneer knew that 
hard times lay ahead; perils, delays, obstacles of 
every kind, and that if the train reached Oregon on 
that twelve-mile average, they would have made a 
glorious record for those who followed them on 
that all but unknown trail. It was Adam Henry 
who was in reality leader of the train, and it was his 
brief words which were heeded and believed. But 
in name his authority was equally shared by Allar- 
dyce, a veteran plainsman, Westcott and Old Tay¬ 
lor, and he preferred to have it so, for he was gifted 
with no talent for putting himself forward, in per¬ 
suasion or speech-making. His leadership was that 
of the man determined to fight on to his goal, who 
will give to his companions in the effort all he has 
to give, but who does not covet responsibility 


nor 


DICK AND DAVE 


19 


even gratitude. Indeed, responsibility fell on him 
heavily, almost against his will. And his loyal, con¬ 
scientious devotion showed itself most often in 
dogged stubbornness, in fits of temper which were 
really no more than anger at those who, to his way 
of thinking, risked success and life itself by their 
careless or weak-hearted conduct. His way with his 
eldest son was the same. He loved Dave so much 
and feared so constantly for his good name and 
safety that he made the high-spirited boy miserable 
by his nagging severity. 

The people of the train, well content with Adam 
Henry’s skillful, tireless leadership, put up with his 
vagaries or laughed at them tolerantly. They knew 
there was one man in a thousand who could so hold 
that crowd of headstrong men together in common 
accord against threatening danger. Not Allardyce, 
with years of experience on the plains; not Westcott, 
rugged old trader on the Santa Fe trail, had Adam 
Henry’s power of inspiring confidence, of leading 
men where he himself had resolved to go. 

But Dave was too close to his father to see 
plainly. He smarted under the hourly tyranny. He 
grew blind to the great qualities which outshone 
Adam Henry’s harshness. Hardly a word passed 
between them, unless in fault-finding on the elder’s 
side, as the boy steadily drew away from his father’s 
influence, demanding his freedom with all the insis¬ 
tence of his dawning manhood. 


20 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


And it would have been so easy to hold him, to 
make him willing to obey, in the few things that 
really counted, Ruth thought with sad misgiving as, 
in the jolting wagon, she sat cross-legged by her 
mother’s side through part of the long, hot after¬ 
noon, helping her cut out and piece together calico 
frocks and aprons. The twins played with a collec¬ 
tion of flowers, seeds and pebbles on the wagon 
floor. The brilliant sun beat down upon the canvas 
wagon-top, and in front Dave shouted to the oxen 
and the long prairie grass swished against the heavy 
wheels as they rolled on across the plain. 

Ruth hesitated about speaking to her mother of 
what was upmost in her thoughts. Mrs. Henry 
showed her feelings little, except in times of real 
emotion, and Ruth often wondered what thoughts 
really hid themselves beyond her soft dark eyes 
and her brave, cheerful smile. To Ruth, open 
and outspoken as her father, this reticence was not 
natural and she sometimes sought to make her mother 
open her heart and share with her their common 
anxieties. Yet in the few times she had succeeded, as 
when Adam Henry had resolved to leave Kentucky, 
and again to leave Missouri, Ruth had found in 
Mrs. Henry’s changed look and voice, in her trem¬ 
bling hands and throbbing heart, such a depth of 
feeling and power to suffer that she dimly felt her 
mother’s wisdom in checking her ardent tongue and 
conquering those doubts and fears that would have 


DICK AND DAVE 


21 


played havoc with her calm sweetness and cheerful 
courage of every day. 

But just now Ruth’s words came out almost un¬ 
consciously, so long had they lain close to her lips. 
“Mother! I’m worried about Dave,” she said. 
“He and father have quarrelled again.” 

Mrs. Henry gave a quick glance toward Dave’s 
back. She spoke low and earnestly. “What was 
it about?” 

“Oh, the same things! Dave wanted to go on 
duty with Mr. Westcott’s watch. They often change 
about, you know. Father refused to let him. Then 
they quarrelled about the pasturage at the nooning. 
I can’t see why they must do it! They don’t under¬ 
stand each other.” 

“No.” Mrs. Henry fell silent, her deft fingers 
not ceasing to cut and sew, though Ruth could see 
how intent her thoughts were. At last she said, “I’ll 
talk to your father, Ruthie. Don’t say any more 
now. Only, be very good to Dave, and patient with 
him. Promise me?” 

“Yes, mother,” Ruth nodded. 

From the front of the wagon Dave turned and 
called to her. “Come out here a few minutes, Ruth. 
I’ve an errand to do. Dick’s here if you need 
help.” 

Mrs. Henry thrust a worn little volume into her 
daughter’s hand. “Here’s your speller, Ruth—you’ll 
have time to study your lesson.” 


22 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Ruth scrambled out on to the seat and took the 
long rawhide whip in her hands. Dave had already 
sprung to the ground and was mounting the black 
mule, which had obediently halted alongside. Dick 
Ernshaw got down from his little mare and glanced 
after the mule as Dave rode away. 

“That’s the kind of beast I should have bought, 
they tell me,” he said. “I’m still laughed at about 
Mandy, but I like her and she sure can run.” 

“Where did you get her?” asked Ruth. “And 
who’s she named for?” 

“I bought her off a trader back on the Missouri 
line,” Dick answered, rubbing one lean brown hand 
over his favorite’s neck, at which she reared and 
pawed with a kind of rebellious pleasure. Dick 
laughed. “She doesn’t want to admit she likes me, 
but I almost think she does—if she likes anyone. I 
named her Mandy after a pony I had back home in 
Tennessee. Thought it would make me seem nearer 
there, somehow. It didn’t, though. They jeered at 
me, I was telling you, for buying her. But I know 
a thing or two about a horse, and I told ’em so. 
They said she was a scooter. That she’d run away 
the second you loosed hold of her. True, too. Up 
to now I daren’t let her loose, nor even slacken hold 
on her halter. She’d be off for the horizon yonder, 
silly thing! She’d lose herself or be picked up by 
Indians.” 

Ruth smiled. “What makes you so proud of her, 


DICK AND DAVE 


23 

Dick? She’s tricky and bad and runs away from 
you.” 

“Yes, but I can’t blame her for that. Poor beast, 
she’s been treated hard and it’s spoiled her temper. 
I reckon she ran off from home young, like myself. 
It’s no use being mean with her; that makes her 
stubborn.” 

Ruth thought of Dave at these words, but was 
silent. The neglected spelling-book had fallen from 
her knees. Dick thoughtfully continued: “Some¬ 
times she takes to kindness and almost seems to 
understand me. She’s smart and tireless. How she 
can run! Never loses her way—not even on these 
plains. And she’s alive to any danger quicker than 
I. Not a distant prowling man or beast, not a 
crawling rattler, but she’s aware of. I tell you, I 
chose well.” He paused to shout to the lead-oxen, 
who were swerving from the trail. 

“Dick,” Ruth broke in, leaning down from the 
wagon-seat, “you said you’d tell me why you came 
West and joined our train—why you want to go out 
to Oregon.” 

Dick nodded, but for a moment he said nothing, 
and his eyes intently scanned the empty prairie that 
stretched before him: gently swelling hills, thickly 
sprinkled with groves, bordering wide, grassy basins 
miles in extent. Lines of sunny woods marked the 
curves of the distant slopes against the horizon. The 
soft, mellow air of summer filled the wide, track- 


24 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


less open with a golden calm and spread the odors 
of ripe berries, flowering shrubs and grass. Far off 
to the right in one of the lines of wagons a man’s 
voice was singing, a lilting, merry song that broke 
off only to commence again. Dick spoke somewhat 
doubtfully. 

“It’s hard to tell you, because it’s my own fault— 
and yet I didn’t go to do wrong. Will you under¬ 
stand that?” 

“Yes,” said Ruth quickly. “I think I shall.” 

With a sudden pang she remembered Dave and 
his hot-headed defiance. 

Dick paused again; boy-like, he found it hard to 
begin talking about himself, much as he wanted to. 
At last he began, all in a breath. 

“I’m from Tennessee, Ruth. Born and brought 
up on a small plantation twenty miles from Knox¬ 
ville. My father never planted much; he had only 
a few slaves and little money. Yet our home was 
mighty pleasant. The truth is, my father wasn’t 
interested in planting, and didn’t care for making 
money. He was a lawyer—what they call a Circuit 
Judge—same as this Abe Lincoln they’re trying now 
to make governor of Oregon territory. My father 
loved his profession more than I can tell you. He 
wanted me, his only child, to follow in his way, and 
sent me at fourteen to study in Knoxville, though he 
could ill afford it. I was willing enough and did my 
best. I liked the life he led; the people he met and 


DICK AND DAVE 


25 


guided; the country he travelled over, the things he 
got to know. Never was such a man for holding your 
interest about all the affairs of our state—of the 
w^hole country. He taught me more than I ever 
learned in school. But when I was sixteen he died, 
and my mother soon after him.” 

Dick stopped short here, unable to describe those 
days, the bitterest of his life. Ruth was silent, too, 
her sympathy not finding words. In a moment he 
went on. 

“After they died my uncle and aunt sold the place 
and took me to live with them. They have a big 
plantation further east in the state. They have no 
children, are rich, and were glad to adopt me as a 
son. But they wanted me to become a planter, a 
man of leisure like my uncle—a kind of little lord 
of his slaves and domain. They wouldn’t hear of my 
going on to study law—said that was work for a 
poor man, a pitiful way to gain a living. They 
wanted me to ride and shoot and learn to give or¬ 
ders and forget that there was a bigger man in the 
state than I—or any who were working, seeing new 
things, getting somewhere. 

“A few years younger I might have yielded and 
enjoyed the ease and pleasure of being rich and 
having slaves obey me. But father had talked too 
much to me; had showed me what was worth doing 
until I was eaten up with longing to do as much as 
he. The plantation smothered me. I lay awake 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


26 

nights wondering how I could leave it, yet grateful 
to my uncle and hesitating to hurt him. 

“At last a man came our way who talked of Ore¬ 
gon; of the wonderful new land open and free to 
pioneers; of the settlers ready to face any dangers 
to reach the western coast and make the whole con¬ 
tinent American. He was on his way to found a 
home out there—or as near the coast as he could 
get. But while he made ready to go—my uncle all 
the time dissuading him, he not listening except to 
smile—he caught fever and died there on our place. 
I can’t tell you what that did to me, Ruth. It must 
have been the thought of that brave fellow, deter¬ 
mined to win West, my uncle holding him back and 
delaying his start, that made up my mind. Any¬ 
way, I knew at last that I couldn’t live my uncle’s 
life; that I might as well break away now and get 
it over. I had not enough money to go back to study 
in Knoxville. I joined the dead man’s partner and 
left the next night for St. Louis. There I picked 
up news of your father’s train and made myself a 
place in it. I knew nothing of prairie life; I am 
not a plainsman. It’s been hard, for I never did like 
being laughed at, but I am not sorry I came. I never 
have been sorry.” 

“But didn’t you tell your uncle and aunt good¬ 
bye? Do they know where you are now?” 

“No, I didn’t tell them good-bye. There wasn’t 
any use in it. Their arguments would have ended 



DICK AND DAVE 


27 


in a quarrel, and I liked them too well to want that. 
But I wrote them from St. Louis and explained the 
best I could. I hope they don’t feel too badly. I 
just couldn’t help it. I can’t explain to you, but it’s 
true.” 

Ruth nodded, her eyes on his. She did not need 
explanations. The need for Dick’s resolve was so 
clear to her she even wondered that he should think 
explanations necessary. But the abrupt leave-taking 
seemed cruel. “I understand why you had to go, 
why you couldn’t live as they wanted you to,” she 
said. ‘Tut a girl would have told them and made 
the parting easier. But you’ll go back some day.” 

Dick smiled. Ruth’s confident optimism was con¬ 
tagious. 

“How do I know?” he said. “I hope I shall. 
But I’ve got to reach Oregon first, and we’re a long 
way from there. And I’ve got my law to study 
when I get there. In the next few years I shan’t 
have much time for paying visits. I mustn’t think 
about going back.” 

Mandy began showing signs of restlessness at 
being tamely led along. Dick mounted her and rode 
a hundred yards over the prairie, returning at a 
run, with a shout to the oxen, sleepily edging from 
the line of march once more. Ruth picked up her 
speller and read over two or three words without 
knowing what they were. When Dick was beside 
her again she said to him with quick earnestness, 


28 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“Dick, it’s hard not to have your own way, isn’t it? 
But while your father lived, you obeyed him. I 
wonder why Dave-” She broke off, loyalty con¬ 

flicting with her eager desire to hear Dick’s answer. 

He got off Mandy’s back and seemed to have 
nothing to say. Ruth looked at him questioningly, 
almost with pleading. 

“You know they don’t agree—father and Dave?” 
she said at last. 

“Yes,” Dick answered. “I know it. And I’m 
sorry. I think it’s a great shame. I wish I could 
help things.” He spoke with feeling, but was then 
again silent. Ruth guessed that he could not go on 
without blaming either father or son, and that he 
knew she would not want to hear that. But what 
he said had brought her no comfort—rather the 
reverse. From his unwillingness to speak, from his 
serious, brief words, she thought that the breach 
must be deeper even than she feared. Had Dave 
hidden from her the real extent of his rebellion? 

“Here Dave comes now. I’ll go,” said Dick, his 
keen eyes catching sight of a rider on a black mule 
trotting down beside the wagon column. “Thanks 
for listening to me, Ruth.” He bowed and smiled, 
leaped on to Mandy’s back and was off down the 
line. Already the sunlight was lengthening across 
the prairie; the long grass hid purple shadows; the 
prairie-dogs and antelope had disappeared. Dave 




DICK AND DAVE 29 

tied his mule to the wagon-shaft and mounted beside 
his sister. 

“We camp in half an hour,” he said. “Close cor¬ 
ralling to-night for the first time, and double watch. 
I expect we won’t see anything but wolves, though.’’ 

As he spoke, coolly and confidently enough, a sud¬ 
den thrill of loneliness and fear struck Ruth as she 
glanced over the darkening prairie—the vast wilder¬ 
ness whose only occupants were pitiless enemies. But 
her eyes fell upon the long wagon-lines parallel with 
the one their own wagon was leading, and into her 
heart, not easily quailed by vague misgivings, flowed 
back courage and confidence at sight of that daunt¬ 
less company of which she made a part. 

If these hundreds of men, women and children 
hoped and believed as she did, what need they fear? 
She smiled at her brother and said, eyes and voice 
once more untroubled: “I’ve seen wolves before, 
Dave. They’re cowards. I’m not afraid of them.’^ 

“Of course you’re not,’’ he agreed. “I’d rather 
see a million of them than one rattler. It’s not the 
wolves we’re wary of. It’s the Pawnees. But we’re 
not scared of them, either. These tribes around 
here are a lot of puny horse-thieves. If we can’t 
hold them at bay, we’re pretty worthless.” 

Ruth smiled assent, but her eyes had risen to the 
sky, whose blue had grown overcast, too soon for 
coming night, by grey, smoky clouds rapidly drifting 
over it.' “Look, Dave,” she said. “It’s cloudy all 



30 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

at once. I thought it was dusk, but the sun’s not 
down.” 

Dave pointed upward with the rawhide whip. “It 
comes from the north. We’d better call a halt. 
There’s a stream, too, beyond those cottonwood 
trees. I wonder father says nothing. / shan’t sug¬ 
gest it.” 

As he spoke the order to halt was passed up from 
somewhere down the line. Long-drawn shouts re¬ 
echoed; the wagons slowed, slewed out, formed into 
curves with the sound of cracking whips and the 
careering of horsemen galloping alongside. The 
oxen were unwieldy, the wagons heavy-wheeled, the 
prairie-grass high and luxuriant. It was a full half 
hour before the long closed oblong was formed— 
wheels locked this time and loose cattle and horses 
to be prisoned inside the enclosure, s Within the 
great, wagon-fenced hollow, men began unyoking the 
oxen and leading them out—through a last gap in 
the defences—to the lazy little stream that flowed 
below a bank bordered with scraggy cottonwood 
trees. And overhead the grey clouds blackened into 
thunder-heads. The prairie and the distant clusters 
of woods took on a purple hue beneath the inky 
shadows. Thunder rumbled out of the distance. A 
cool wind arose, bringing the smell of rain. 

Ruth had run to Kate Allardyce’s wagon, remem¬ 
bering Kate’s fear of thunderstorms, a fear strangely 
kept through many harder tests of the child’s cour- 


DICK AND DAVE 


31 


age. Rain was falling now in great drops. Light¬ 
ning flashed from the blackened sky, with sharp 
bursts and rolling peals of thunder. 

In the Allardyce’s wagon Kate’s father, having 
quickly watered his oxen and turned them out to feed, 
one eye on the storm about to break, lay back now 
in peaceful content beneath his wagon’s canvas roof, 
a pipe in his lips, puffing crooked whiffs of smoke 
Into the windy, rain-filled air. 

Outside, shouts and a confusion of moving animals 
and cracking whips rose above the noise of rain and 
thunder, as belated wagoners brought their teams at 
what speed they could back from the stream, or boys 
on horseback rounded up the cattle. Kate sat silent 
and trembling by Ruth’s side, now and then stealing 
a frightened glance toward the darkened, rain-swept 
prairie, or the black sky above. 

“It’s a bad one, but ’twill pass,” Allardyce re¬ 
moved his pipe once to say. It was hard to speak 
now at all In the crash of the thunder. Ruth’s ears 
were stunned with it, but she was not afraid. Only 
the range and greatness of the storm held her silent 
as Kate was, spellbound; made her heart leap and 
her breath come fast. In these great spaces the 
thunder seemed far louder than In woods or settle¬ 
ments. Bursting with terrific crashes directly over¬ 
head, It roared over a boundless waste of prairie, 
rolled around the whole firmament with a peculiar 
and awful echoing. The lightning flashes revealed 


32 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


the vast plain for an instant, then, vanishing, shut in 
the wagons as with a palpable wall of darkness. 

“Hark!” said Allardyce at last, leaning forward 
to listen during a break in the tempest. His keen 
ears had caught a sound not distinguished by Ruth 
or Kate. He sat hearkening intently a moment. 

“What was it, Mr. Allardyce?” Ruth entreated. 
“What do you hear?” 

“There ’tis again!” he said. “The storm’s slack¬ 
ening fast. You can hear it now, can’t you? Like 
a howl?” 

“Yes!” exclaimed both girls at once. “It’s a 
wolf!” 

“No, not so early. It’s what howls just like a 
wolf, though; cousin to one, I reckon. It’s an In¬ 
dian dog—those varmints haven’t ever got civilized 
enough to learn to bark. Yes, sir; there’s an Indian 
village beyond those woods. I suspicioned as much 
when I thought I caught a whiff of smoke among 
the tree-tops. Will they be Pawnees, now, or Da¬ 
kotas? Pawnees, most likely. They’re not much 
to fear, the thieving scoundrels! But the Dakotas— 
the Sioux—they’re a different tale-” 

The old man had forgotten his audience and was 
talking half to himself, his pipe swaying in one hand, 
his shrewd, worn face lighted by the last rays of 
daylight as the storm lessened and the rain abruptly 
ceased. 

The great prairie was illuminated by gleams of 



DICK AND DAVE 


33 


sunlight from the lower edge of a sky striped with 
grey, blue and crimson. The rain-beaten grass was 
bent over like grain in a wind; leaves, stems and 
fragments of prairie-flowers strewed the wagon-tops 
and wheels. The drenched horses and cattle shook 
themselves and began to stir about and venture from 
the wagon-lees’ poor shelter. 

“Why, who’s that?” said Kate, her voice still 
trembling with fear hardly ended as the last thun¬ 
der-peals rolled dully through the sky. Ruth sprang 
from the wagon into the wet grass and saw a strange, 
mounted figure coming toward the wagon-train’s 
encampment. 


CHAPTER III 


IN THE pawnees' COUNTRY 

‘‘T KNEW it,” old Allardyce exclaimed, following 

X Kate’s glance. ‘“That pesky storm has made 
us stop right alongside a hive of ’em. Oh, they’re 
friendly enough. Pawnees are, I daresay—by day¬ 
light, at any rate. But I’d just as soon have got 
beyond them. This old fellow wants to do a little 
trading, maybe, or else find out where we’re going.” 

“Father says the tribes are angry at so many 
white men moving west,” said Ruth, her eyes fixed 
on the solitary Indian who was riding toward them. 
“He says they’re sending word to each other that 
the whole white nation is coming to take away their 
land.” 

Allardyce gave the low chuckle that with him ex¬ 
pressed more than a boast or a threat. “I reckon 
they’re right,” he said. “They’ve maybe got some¬ 
thing to fear. Not but what I’ll admit we’ve got a 
good deal to fear, too.” 

The Indian brave had now almost reached the 
wagon-train, outside of which a dozen people had 

34 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 


35 


collected curiously, to watch his cautious approach. 
The gathering twilight hung about his picturesque 
figure like a dusky curtain, the last glimmering light 
revealing his lean, spotted pony and his upright, dig¬ 
nified figure, wrapped in a dirty crimson blanket. 
His head was shaved and painted red, and about 
his ears dangled eagle’s feathers and the tails of 
rattlesnakes. His cheeks were daubed with Vermil¬ 
lion, and a collar of grizzly bear’s claws and two 
necklaces of wampum hung about his neck. 

“How!” he called out, raising his whip in greet¬ 
ing, his bright black eyes shining in his wrinkled, 
copper-colored face. “How, Meneaska!” (white 
men.) 

Ruth’s father had joined Allardyce beside the 
wagon. Dave, Dick and half a dozen other young 
men stood by. There was nothing warlike in the 
Pawnee’s attitude, he seemed curious and friendly. 
Dismounting, he shook out from within the folds of 
his blanket another necklace of wampum and a small 
woolly black dog. As he held these offerings toward 
Adam Henry, he poured out a flood of rapid sing¬ 
song speech of which Jonathan Allardyce alone could 
understand all, and Adam Henry a part. 

“He says these are presents to the Meneaska 
chief,” Allardyce explained when the Indian paused. 
“He says the dog will be a tender morsel for the 
white men’s supper.” 


36 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“He wants us to eat him?” said Ruth, aghast. 
“Eat that puppy?” 

“Shan’t!” cried Edwin Henry, suddenly appear¬ 
ing from between his father’s legs and snatching the 
little dog from his arms. “Shan’t eat him I I want 
him—to keep.” 

Adam Henry held out to the Pawnee a paper of 
tobacco, which he seized with greedy delight and 
audible grunts of pleasure. 

Then began a conversation between the Indian 
and the two elder white men, which was understood 
by the listeners only through looks and gestures, 
until Ruth and Kate afterwards begged from their 
fathers a full account of it. The Indian boasted as 
much as he could of his fame and that of his village. 
The men of the train, Allardyce in particular, who 
enjoyed outdoing the savage at his own game, gave 
glowing tales of the white men’s strength and cour¬ 
age. The Indian began by describing how the young 
men of his village had quelled the thunderstorm 
before it had destroyed the lodges. 

“Our thunder fighters were out with bows, arrows, 
guns, magic drums and whistles made from the 
wing-bone of the eagle 1” he exclaimed. “They 
fired at the thunder and frightened it away. We 
saw it flying off, a great black bird, sorely wounded.” 

Allardyce slowly shook his head. “You think you 
frightened it away,” he said tolerantly. “But it was 
really the sight of our wagon-train that did it. No 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 37 

thunder-bird could look on such an array of war¬ 
riors, horses, oxen, wagons, rifles, meat and blankets. 
Our strength and riches were overpowering. The 
storm melted away, just as our enemies will—dis¬ 
mayed.” 

The Indian, nonplussed, stared at the speaker, 
and even Adam Henry gave a faint snort of admi¬ 
ration. 

“You’ve some tongue in your head, Jonathan,” 
he commented. “Ask him how many are in his 
village.” 

The Indian, recovering his wits, declared that the 
warriors of his village were as many as the grass¬ 
hoppers on the prairie, and as strong as the buffalo. 
This, while impressive, gave his questioners no defi¬ 
nite information, nor had they expected any. How¬ 
ever, the Pawnee, with a return to simplicity, offered 
to escort the white chief to his village the following 
morning and professed all friendliness and good¬ 
will toward the pioneers. 

“Umph!” remarked Adam Henry dubiously. “We 
can’t stop for any visiting. Ask him, Jonathan, if 
the Pawnees about here are inclined to be on the 
warpath now, or if they’re peaceable. Just by chance 
he may let drop a grain of truth.” 

Allardyce put the question, bolstering it up after 
his own fashion. 

“Are your brothers anxious to fight the Mene- 
aska?” he demanded. “Are they ready to die at 


38 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


our hands, or will they smoke and eat with us and 
continue to live?” 

The Indian declared that his fellow tribesmen 
scattered through the valley of the Platte felt noth¬ 
ing but love for the white men. He was now plainly 
uneasy, as night had fallen, and wished to cut short 
the interview. From behind him, through the shad¬ 
ows, appeared two other mounted figures, hovering 
watchfully about. More of the people of the wagon- 
train had collected around the visitor. He answered 
Allardyce’s last question briefly, wheeled his pony, 
cried out a last “How!” of salutation and vanished 
abruptly into the darkness. 

“Double watch to-night, Jonathan. Set sentries 
every thirty yards,” said Adam Henry, upon whom 
the Pawnee’s protests of friendship had made not 
the least impression. 

Allardyce grunted. “We’ve little to fear from 
those sneak-thieves,” he said. “They’re not what I 
call Indians, the Pawnees aren’t. The Sioux, now— 
or even the Crows-” 

“But we don’t even want to be robbed,” said Dick 
Ernshaw, in Dave’s ear, amused by the old plains¬ 
man’s rambling talk. “What with wolves and 
Pawnees,” he added, “we’d better keep an eye open. 
Shall I take turn about with you, Dave?” On 
Dave’s nodding assent, Dick said to Adam Henry: 
“I’ll watch to-night with Dave, sir, if you please. 



IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 


39 

He’ll need a helper, as you’re so often wanted else¬ 
where.” 

“Right,” said the elder man. He liked Dick and 
was kind to him, though without waste of words. 
“Get your suppers, then, and divide your time. I’m 
going the rounds.” 

The little, inconspicuous brush fires were already 
extinguished. The frugal suppers of corn bread, 
dried meat and coffee quickly despatched. The ani¬ 
mals within the corral of wagons settled down more 
or less peacefully for the night, and inside and be¬ 
neath the wagons the families were getting ready to 
sleep. The men and boys whose turn it was to mount 
guard shouldered their rifles and sought their posts 
outside the enclosure. Here and there a crying baby 
or a calling child broke the silence of the prairie; 
out of the distance came at intervals the short, sharp 
howls of marauding grey wolves. 

Ruth leaned out from the wagon to speak to her 
brother. “You on guard now, Dave?” 

“No; Dick’s first. Give me my blanket. I’m 
going to sleep beneath the wagon. Nothing to fear. 
Those wolves are noisy cowards. They’re trying to 
get up courage enough to sneak in between our 
wagons to gnaw the rawhide tethers off our horses’ 
legs. Rawhide’s a sweet morsel to them.” 

“They must be hungry! Good-night, Dave!” 

The twins were already asleep. Mrs. Henry 
leaned out by Ruth’s side, her hand on Dave’s shoul- 


40 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


der. “Where’s your father?” she asked softly, and 
in the starlight Ruth could see her touch Dave’s face 
and hair with her delicate, roughened fingers. 

“I don’t know; off on rounds.” Dave spoke this 
time sulkily, drew back from his mother’s hand and 
dropped to the grass. 

It was near midnight when the alarm came. Ruth 
woke from sleep in an instant at the sound of rifle 
shots and of men shouting. The twins, wakened 
too, cried for their mother. Ruth gasped out a 
question which Mrs. Henry could not answer, then, 
rolling herself in her blanket, slipped from the 
wagon and, peering through the wheels that locked 
it to its neighbor in the line, stared into the starlit 
darkness with wildly beating heart. 

“D ave! Dick!” she whispered, not daring to 
speak aloud. 

She guessed that the shots and voices had been 
those of the sentries giving the alarm, and so close 
at hand had they sounded she doubted not that the 
danger was near this side of the long oblong en¬ 
closure. 

Almost before she could quiet her panting breath 
to listen, before her mother’s quick, warning sum¬ 
mons reached her ears, more shots cracked out from 
behind the wagons, a dozen crawling figures sprang 
upright in the grass and vanished over the prairie, 
pursued by as many of the pioneers, rifle In hand. 

“Back! Back, boys!” old Allardyce shouted. 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 


41 

“Leave the varmints go! Don’t follow them! 
They’re scared off good enough!” 

Then Ruth heard her father’s voice: “Take your 
posts, sentries! Back on guard!” 

Almost at once Dave’s dim figure came slowly 
toward her, head bent, rifle grasped in one hand. 
Scarcely knowing what she did, or why that vague 
outline called to her, Ruth dropped to the grass, 
crawled under the wagon and met her brother on 
the farther side. 

“Dave! Are you safe? Where’s Dick?” she 
asked. 

“He’s gone off to sleep. It’s my turn to watch 
now,” Dave answered shortly. With an effort he 
added: “No danger. They’re scared away. They 
got nothing. Go to bed.” 

“I can’t, Dave. I’m not sleepy now. Can’t I 
talk to you a little?” Ruth begged, catching her 
brother’s hand with her clinging fingers. “Tell me 
about the fight, Dave, won’t you?” 

“Ask father. He’s at our wagon now.” 

“I’d rather you’d tell me. Just a little, Dave, 
please! How many Indians were there? Was it 
you that heard them?” 

“No, it was Dick. He gave the alarm. There 
weren’t more than thirty or so of them. Out to 
steal, for they were poorly armed. They let fly but a 
few arrows in the dark before they ran.” 

“What were they after—the horses?” 



42 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

“Yes—or blankets, food, anything they could 
get.” 

“That’s the way they’re friendly! Only while it’s 
light! Mr. Allardyce knows them, doesn’t he?” 
breathed Ruth, still trembling with excitement. She 
had not had time to be afraid, but now the silence 
settling down again, as cries and questions of alarm 
were silenced through the wagon-train, seemed to 
unnerve her more than had the brief attack. Dave’s 
voice and manner, too, filled her with fresh anxiety. 
She spoke with eager pleading. 

“Why do you seem so bothered, Dave, if.it was 
easy to scare them off ? Why do you sound so cross 
and won’t tell me anything at all?” 

At this Dave flung himself on the grass beside his 
sister and spoke quickly, vehemently, though all the 
time his hands grasped his rifle and his watchful eyes 
searched the starlit plain. 

“Can’t you guess what it is, without asking me? 
Didn’t you hear him? He talked loud enough!” 

“No, I didn’t hear him. You mean father? I 
only heard him give the sentries orders, along this 
side. What did he say, Dave?” 

Warm as the night was, Ruth shivered in her 
blanket, her anxious eyes trying to read her brother’s 
face. He got up from the grass, walked his beat, 
listened intently, then sank down again beside the 
wagon. His wrongs burned too hotly within him 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 


43 

for suppression, and into Ruth’s loving, loyal ears 
he spoke in a bitter outburst of resentment. 

“I suppose you woke when Dick fired his shot of 
alarm? That woke me, too, and a hundred others. 
We were up on the instant, .and forty or fifty of us 
gathered round Dick and his neighbor sentries be¬ 
fore the Indians crawling toward us through the 
long grass were more than just in sight. They were 
staggered at being caught so quickly. They scat¬ 
tered, some dodging back through the dark, some, 
bolder, trying to fire a few arrows between the 
wagons and clear a way through to stampede the 
horses, or at worst snatch a few blankets. It was 
one of these I followed—the others weren’t worth 
a shot—and I chased him out from his hiding place 
beneath a wagon down the line, and ran him close, 
one of my shots—I’ll swear it—in the calf of his 
leg! And in the starlight, a dozen yards out on the 
prairie, I caught him up and would have killed or 
captured him—he, the leader of the attack. But 
there came father at my heels—he and old Taylor— 
yelling at me to come back, to cease firing, not to 
go out another yard onto the prairie. He was 
hoarse with fury. Half the camp must have heard 
him. I was a reckless fool to chase my man into 
the dark! I was a child who wants his own way, 
heedless of those behind to be protected! And he, 
five minutes before, had ordered us out to repel the 
attack—had said drive back the savages at all costs— 





44 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


give ’em the scare of their lives! Huh! The only 
way to fight is to fight! If your enemy’s in the dark, 
can you fight him in the daylight? I found the leader 
of those sneak-thieves! I had him! But father 
caught my rifle arm, ordering me back! We fairly 
wrestled there; all my will struggling against the 
longing to strike him and get free! The Indian 
vanished—chuckling at our foolishness, no doubt. 
Oh, it’s no use, Ruth! I can’t stand it any longer! 
I’ll see you through the worst of the journey—I 
can’t do less. But once at Fort Laramie—I’m going 
to run away! I won’t go on to Oregon!” 

Ruth lay huddled in her blanket, but now her 
eyes were filled with tears and a sob was choked in 
the woolly folds against her mouth. For a long mo¬ 
ment she was silent, and when she did speak it was 
not to protest Dave’s hard resolve, nor to uphold 
her father against him. Something stronger than 
any argument made her appeal, and she spoke softly, 
without reproach or indignation. 

“If you go away, Dave, after we reach Fort Lara¬ 
mie, that means only a month or two more we’ll be 
together. I can’t think how my life will be without 
you, Dave! It’s almost thirteen years back I can 
remember you. I think the first thing I remember 
is when you put me on your pony’s back and held 
me while it walked around the farm. I can see 
now how the fields and hills looked from the pony’s 
back—all the lovely Kentucky country.” 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 


45 

“Yes.” Dave’s chin was resting on his arms and 
he spoke very slowly. 

“Doesn’t it seem long ago? You were eight 
when we started West, and I was twelve. I thought 
I was nearly grown up then. But didn’t Missouri 
seem far away?” 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t afraid to go. And I 
loved it, from the first day we got there—to that 
big clearing in the woods, where father staked off 
his claim, the Taylors on the other side. Dave, I 
remember playing around in the woods, when mother 
sent me to fetch twigs for the fire, and hearing 
father and you and Mr. Taylor and his sons cutting 
down trees to build the houses. It was springtime 
then. By winter the farms were built—our first 
little house. Was it next year we put on the wing 
and built the barn?” 

“You forget the winter, Ruthie!” Dave raised 
his head now to speak. “I’ll never forget it! Our 
crops were poor, for we had to cut away and clear 
the ground, and we planted late. The nearest 
town-” 

“Franklinville-” 

“Yes—was thirty miles away. But father and I 
hauled wood there to sell more than once through 
the snow on sledges, and brought back coffee and 
flour and candles.” 

“But before we left”— and here Ruth’s troubled 
voice was filled with pride—“our farm was the finest 




46 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


on the frontier of Missouri, wasn’t it, Dave? Our 
fields had the best corn, and our fences kept the 
wolves from our lambs and chickens. Oh, I loved 
that place, Dave! I dream of it almost every night! 
Father had courage to leave it and start on again.” 

“He did,” Dave agreed. Almost as if in spite 
of himself he added: “But he’ll start all over in 
Oregon, and do as well again.” 

“But you won’t be with us, Dave! You’re going 
to leave us. Dave, how can you?” Ruth had his 
hand in hers now and her warm tears fell upon it. 
“Oh, please stay! Can’t you bear it?” 

For a moment Dave’s hand clasped hers, and his 
rebellious tongue found not a word to say. But off 
on the prairie a wolf howled, then a second, then a 
full, hungry chorus echoed dismally through the 
night. Dave sprang up to resume his beat, and 
though he bent down again to Ruth’s side, he said 
no more than: 

“Go back to bed! We can’t talk now! Don’t 
worry!” His hand touched her hair and he was off 
down the line. Ruth, tired and cramped from 
crouching on the uneven ground, climbed back into 
the wagon and forgot her troubled thoughts in 
sleep. 

“Not much fighters, they weren’t! A scary 
crowd!” declared Adam Henry with some satisfac¬ 
tion the next morning, in talking over the night’s 
attack. He had sent scouts out early toward the 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 47 

cottonwood trees which had sheltered the Pawnee 
village, and these, returning, reported that the In¬ 
dians had decamped during the night, leaving no 
traces but the ashes of their fires and a few tattered 
deerhide lodge-coverings. 

Adam Henry spoke with his tin coffee cup in his 
hand, he and his family seated in the grass beside 
the wagon, around the breakfast fire, while the dawn 
brightened to sunrise in the eastern sky. 

“They were ’fraid of us. Dad, weren’t they?” 
asked Edwin proudly. He held in his arms the 
black puppy which had been the Indian’s peace-offer¬ 
ing, and fed it with scraps of hard corn bread. 

“Pawnees aren’t much to fear, unless we’re ’way 
outnumbered,” his father volunteered, smiling at 
him. “But I expect those rascals moved on west and 
will spreads news of our coming. And as it’s bad 
news, they’ll be glad to spread it to their enemies, 
the Sioux. We’re nearly in their country now. 
Where’s Dave?” 

The old pioneer looked about the family group, 
his first sharp hunger satisfied, and noticed his elder 
son’s absence. Mrs. Henry said in her quiet way: 

“He’s breakfasted and gone, Adam. He’ll be 
back if you need him.” 

Her husband made no comment, but a cloud 
passed over his frank, open face. Ruth guessed 
that he was remembering his quarrel with Dave the 
night before, and was resenting that the boy had 


48 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


not forgotten it. Longing to divert his thoughts 
and honestly curious on her own account, she asked 
impulsively: 

“Tell me where we are to-day, father, won’t 
you? Are we near the Platte River yet?” 

“Not yet, daughter,” he answered, but gruffly 
still. “We’ll not enter the Platte valley for another 
day. The road’s clear along here, though—you’ll 
see it plain: the old trail of trapper and trader and 
Mormon emigrant. Looks more like a buffalo track 
sometimes, but to my eyes it’s good enough—it’ll 
show the way to Oregon. Time to roll out.” 

He got up from the grass without more words, 
mounted his horse and rejoined Allardyce within 
the lines. 

The scattered oak and hickory woods, the low 
green hills of the luxuriant prairie, began to change 
to cottonwood trees and to sandy dunes. At noon 
they crossed the ford of the Big Blue and entered 
what we now call Nebraska, headed for the great 
valley of the Platte, which leads into the Rockies. 

With the change in landscape, with the new, 
sandier soil from which now and then cactus 
bloomed, with the far-off, hazy line of flat horizon 
seeming to lie at untold distances, the emigrants’ 
spirits awoke to sudden confidence. They began to 
feel they were almost in Oregon—or, if they did 
not really feel it, they tried to deceive themselves 
with some such hope; to imagine that the deadly 




IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 49 

dangers of the long, hard journey were mostly at 
their back, instead of just beginning. 

It was mid-afternoon when Dick, riding beside the 
cow-train, galloped back to the Henrys’ wagon and 
shouted to Dave, who walked beside the team: 

“Where’s your father, Dave? Or Allardyce? 
There’s an Indian riding toward us, and at a furi¬ 
ous rate. He almost stampeded our mules.” 

Before he finished speaking the rider himself ap¬ 
peared from behind the herd of cows, mules and 
spare oxen driven alongside the train. Dave seized 
his rifle from the wagon and Dick unslung his from 
the saddle. 

“Get in!” Dave shouted to Ruth and Edwina, 
who had climbed down to walk through the sweet¬ 
smelling grass. Intent on the strange visitor who 
came careering alone out of the distance, they but 
half obeyed him. 

The Indian thus bearing down at all his pony’s 
speed upon the emigrants had nothing about him to 
suggest the idle curiosity of last evening’s visitor. 
When he was within twenty yards of the wagons, 
Dick, Dave and young Taylor, who had joined 
them, raised rifles to their shoulders and stood 
ready, so surely and instantly did they read in the 
savage’s demeanor no less than a deadly defiance. 

The man astride the fleet, foam-spattered pony 
was a young warrior, six feet in height, his limbs 


50 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


sinewy and muscular, his seat easy, firm and grace¬ 
ful. His long hair was gathered together at the 
back of his head, from which hung brass plates of 
varying sizes. About his lithe body was loosely 
wrapped a robe of whitened buffalo-hide. From his 
saddle blanket hung a quiver of skin and a rude but 
powerful bow. In his free hand he grasped some¬ 
thing which the watchers could not yet distinguish. 
Their glances ever returned to the Indian’s face, 
which was close set, with tightened jaws, cruel lips 
and eyes gleaming with a furious and feverish light. 

Now he was almost on the train, and Dave in a 
strong voice called on him to halt. No answer; but 
the Indian, letting fall his halter-rein, snatched up a 
small battle-ax from his belt and raised his hand to 
fling it at Dave’s head. 

Ruth and her mother screamed. Dave’s and 
Dick’s rifles had crashed out. The bullets struck the 
savage full in the breast. Reeling, he let fall the 
axe and pressed one hand against his wounds. He 
gave a shrill and horrible cry, and raising with a last 
effort the object he carried in his other hand, flung 
it far over the first line of the wagon-train. Then 
slipping from his terrified pony’s back, he fell dead 
upon the prairie. 

The news spread in a moment throughout the 
lines. A hasty halt was called and a crowd of run¬ 
ning people collected about the Indian’s body. Al- 


IN THE PAWNEES’ COUNTRY 51 

lardyce picked up the object thrown among the 
wagons and held it before Adam Henry’s eyes. It 
was a dogskin quiver packed with arrows—the In¬ 
dian symbol of hatred and defiance. 

“He dared to give his life to fling that in to us,” 
said Dick, looking at the young warrior’s body with 
something of respect. “Now do you think better of 
the Pawnees, Mr. Allardyce?” 

The old man shook his head, his eyes on the fallen 
foe. 

“That’s no Pawnee, Dick,” he said. “Look at 
him good. You’ll see more like him soon. That’s 
a Dakota—Sioux, they call ’em. I told you the 
Pawnees would spread news of our coming. This 
fellow came east to meet the train and show us how 
they’ll make us welcome. Yes—that Indian there’s 
worth twenty Pawnees, or more. I don’t laugh at 
the Sioux—there’d be no luck in that. They’re 
fighters.” 

“Come, Jonathan! Pass on the word to march. 
We’ve no time for burying Indians, much less talkin’ 
over their bodies.” Adam Henry spoke shortly, 
the quiverful of arrows still held in his thin brown 
hands. “This man here was out to scare us back— 
to win fame for himself. I haven’t heard tell of 
many Sioux lodges this side the Platte.” 

The wagon-train started on again, the oxen pull¬ 
ing steadily at their loads, the horses and mules trot- 


52 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


ting through the luxuriant, flower-laden prairie 
grass. The pioneers moved westward once more, 
leaving behind them on the plain the body of the 
Indian who had failed to break their purpose. 


CHAPTER IV 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 

“T OOK at them all, Kate! I can’t count them! 

JL^ Dave has shot buffalo before—on the edge 
of the prairie. But he never saw a herd like this, 
and Dick’s never seen one in his life!” 

Ruth caught her companion’s arm in her excite¬ 
ment, jumped up and down as she stood amid the 
coarse, sparse grass of the Platte valley, then sprang 
upon the wagon-wheel—for the train had halted— 
to see further over the plain. It was dotted with 
thousands of buffalo, trooping along in files and col¬ 
umns over the grassy hillsides. At greater distance 
the huge animals appeared no more than number¬ 
less specks on the pale blue, far-off swells of the 
prairie. 

It looked like dangerous riding-country, Ruth 
thought, her keen eyes discerning gorges and ra¬ 
vines in the sand-hills that 'marked the expanse of 
wild, desolate landscape, over which shone the sultry 
heat of noon. They were in the Platte valley at 
last, and before the wagons stretched league after 

53 


54 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


league of level plain. Only the Platte, divided into 
a dozen thread-like sluices, with now and then a 
clump of woods rising from an island between the 
narrow currents, relieved the monotony of the waste. 
Sand-hills, broken into fantastic forms, flanked the 
wide valley. The long, coarse grass now and then 
veiled skulls and bones of wolves or buffalo. Off at 
the horizon, the hazy air was blurred, and Ruth 
caught her eyes playing tricks and showing her sand¬ 
hills and distant prairie sometimes nearer than they 
were, sometimes changed from level land to a 
semblance of towers or shimmering lakes. This 
was the desert mirage, but she did not know it, and 
only rubbed her eyes and looked again. 

“We can’t see the hunters. They’ve ridden too 
far away,” said Kate, her voice docile and resigned 
where Ruth’s was eager and longing. “Father said 
they’d be gone two hours. How many of them went, 
Ruth? I was busy in the wagon.” 

“There must have been fifty,” Ruth reckoned, 
thoughtfully. “That’s why they coralled the wagons 
and left the rest of the men on guard. Father said 
with any luck they’d bring back fresh meat to last 
until we cross the river. But he grumbled a little 
about the men being poor buffalo-hunters. Only a 
few have lived much on the plains. I expect your 
father is the best of all.” 

“Look how near that one has come!” Kate almost 
whispered. “He’s not a bit afraid.” 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 


55 


A big buffalo bull had approached to within twenty 
yards of the train and stood staring curiously at the 
white-topped wagons, his shaggy head lowered, his 
eyes invisible behind his tangled mane. Then sud¬ 
denly, with a snort, he wheeled and galloped off to 
join the nearest herd. 

Ruth gasped, for she had held her breath. “Kate, 
how do they ever kill them—such monsters as they 
are! Oh, there are some little ones, see, following 
their mother! I hope we don’t hurt those!” 

“Here comes Dave back,” said quiet Kate. “See 
him, dodging around the buffalo, near that grove of 
cottonwood?” 

“Yes. What can he want?” cried Ruth, and ran 
out into the grass to meet him, Kate close behind. 

“Dave, Dave!” she called. “What do you want? 
Is the hunt over?” 

Dave was near them now, and the two girls saw 
that the black mule was streaked with sweat and 
that her rider’s face was stern and anxious. He had 
no smile or glance for his sister; his eyes were fixed 
on the wagon-train and it was almost over his shoul¬ 
der that, passing at a gallop, he flung back the 
words: 

“Get into the corral, Ruth and Kate! Get in, I 
say!” 

They obeyed in amazement and alarm. Already 
at the first gap in the wagon lines Dave had flung 
himself off his mule’s back and called the nearest 


56 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


men together. Ruth caught but half of his breath¬ 
less, disjointed words: “A band of the Sioux—keep 
guard—back as early as we can—close up the wag¬ 
ons-” 

The men listened, nodded, their eyes flashed un¬ 
derstanding. With few words they ran along the 
open lines, hitching up the oxen to move the wagons 
closer together, spreading the order to stiffen the 
defence. 

Ruth’s eyes one instant scanned the prairie, peace¬ 
ful as ever with its grazing herds of buffalo, then 
turned to her brother’s face. “Dave, you’ll not go 
back again?” she cried. “Where are the Indians? 
There are none in sight!” 

Dave mounted as he answered: “They’re near 
enough in sight. Of course I’m going back. We 
don’t know where Dick and young Taylor are. 
They chased the farthest herd behind the sand-hills. 
The Sioux have crept in between. We’ll scout after 
them-” 

The last words came back faintly as the black 
mule raced away over the plain. Ruth and Kate 
stood watching across the wagon-wheels, their hearts 
pounding, the helpless torment of suspense striking 
them dully silent. 

Out on the prairie, between the first ridge of sand¬ 
hills, Dick and young Taylor, with Allardyce as 
teacher, had an hour earlier in the day learned to 
run their first buffalo. Allardyce had led his novices 





A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 57 

away beyond the other hunters, lest the boys’ awk¬ 
wardness stampede the herd, and also to show off 
his own inimitable skill before the youngsters’ ad¬ 
miring eyes. 

At first Dick and Taylor were fairly confused, 
and all the wise cautions and advice the old hunter 
poured into their ears made little impression. The 
crowds of buffalo, shouldering each other in clumsy 
gallop, making for the openings in the hills, envel¬ 
oped in clouds of dust, disturbed and unnerved 
them. On every side, huge, shaggy heads were 
lowered menacingly, little angry eyes stared stupidly 
through tangled mane, while, mixed in among the 
buffalo, agile antelope showed their white throats 
and soft, dark eyes, and lean wolves stalked the 
buffalo herd, shrinking back before the bulls’ ap¬ 
proach, but creeping closer among the cows and 
calves. 

The ground was uneven and dangerous; gorges 
and ravines broke the sand-hills everywhere. Along 
the slopes grew strange shrubs; clumps of prickly 
pear dotted the desolate landscape. Allardyce bade 
his pupils wait while he gave them a lesson, and 
they obeyed, though already Dick’s headstrong little 
mare, not so new as her master at buffalo-running, 
was panting and rearing with ardor to plunge into 
the chase. 

Allardyce, in the simple vanity which was the old 
plainsman’s chief failing, made things as hard for 


58 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


himself as possible, that the boys might see all the 
chief difficulties overcome at once. 

“The meanest thing, I’ve always held,” he said, 
“is loading at a gallop. That needs a cool head and 
quick hands, when the buffalo have got their blood 
up. Now watch!” 

He struck his heels into his horse’s flanks and was 
off through the herds, fearlessly thrusting himself 
among the great, startled beasts, who halted, stared, 
shook their heads, held their ground menacingly, or 
turned and fled. Now Allardyce was loading as he 
galloped by. His bullets were in his mouth. He 
poured his powder down the gun-muzzle, dropped a 
bullet after it, then struck the gun-stock hard on the 
pommel of his saddle to send the bullet home. What 
if the blow should fail to place the bullet, or should 
it slip toward the muzzle? Dick thought uneasily. 
The gun would surely burst in discharging. But 
already, in the growing excitement of the hunt, he 
was ready to take that risk. The little mare pulled 
almost beyond his power to hold, feeling now her 
rider’s own boiling impatience to face the glorious 
hazards of the buffalo run at Allardyce’s side. 

The old plainsman picked out a big, stalwart bull 
and shot him in the lungs—a hard place to hit, for 
the buffalo’s lean body is half hidden behind his 
shaggy head, but to shoot at the massive skull is 
like firing at a stone wall. That much Dick knew, 
and little more. The bull stopped short, swayed 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 59 

an instant, then lowered his head and charged at 
Allardyce’s horse with amazing force and swift¬ 
ness. Dick and young Taylor gave an involuntary 
cry. But Allardyce’s mount cunningly dodged the 
attack and whisked to one side. The bull fell upon 
the prairie, struggled an instant and lay still. 

Allardyce pursued a second one, guiding his horse 
with his knees while he reloaded, his mount, keyed 
to a high pitch of excitement, responding to the 
lightest touch, dodging repeated attacks from bulls 
now roused to fury, and running so swiftly through 
the herd that few of the huge, clumsy beasts could, 
for the very pressure of their own bodies, charge or 
follow. 

Dick could wait no longer. He saw how it was 
done now. Although he knew little more about 
buffalo than the boy of to-day who sees the vanished 
monarch of the plains on the back of a five-cent 
piece, he did not hesitate. He forgot young Tay¬ 
lor’s presence. He forgot the danger. He leaned 
forward on Mandy’s neck, loosing the rein. In a 
second she had darted through the first gap in the 
restless^ frightened, angry herd. 

A rider on an animal unbroken to the prairie 
would have had no chance in such a place. In five 
minutes he would have been thrown by his stumbling 
horse and trampled by the buffalo. The prairie 
was broken up into all manner of little hillocks and 
hollows, intersected with cracks and studded with 


6o 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


stiff sage-bushes. It was full of prairie-dog and 
badger burrows, into which a horse might put his 
foot in full career. But Mandy seemed to have 
eyes in her feet. She ran without stumbling, and 
Dick, his breath coming fast, his eyes and hands 
alert, felt once more a thrill of satisfaction in the 
wary, cranky, wise little beast between his knees. 

At a short distance Dick had surveyed the herd, 
in some places so closely packed together that their 
backs looked like a solid dark surface, extending 
over the swelling prairie for a quarter of a mile. 
Where they were scattered, little columns of dust 
rose from their rolling on the ground, or from a 
battle between the bulls, of which he heard the clat¬ 
ter of horns and hoarse bellowing. But now all 
sense of direction, of seeing even a part of the herd, 
was gone. He was wedged in between two furious 
bulls who turned and faced him, and he could see 
nothing beyond those tousled, tossing heads, those 
blood-shot eyes and threatening horns. For a sec¬ 
ond he was bewildered, and it was Mandy who 
reared, wheeled and dashed through a narrow gap 
among the cows to gain a moment’s time. One of 
the bulls, quicker than the other, followed, roused 
to all the swiftness and ferocity that the buffalo 
hides beneath his awkwardness and sloth. There 
was no time to lose. Dick fired and struck the bull 
in the side, checking his rush. He bellowed, trem¬ 
bled, but with the utmost fierceness charged again. 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 6i 


Nimbly Mandy sprang aside. Dick could no more 
have reloaded now than if he had never seen a gun 
before. His pistol remained, but he dared not risk 
his last shot without good aim. Allardyce was out 
of sight. Taylor seemed not to have followed close 
behind. His agile mare avoided the wounded buf¬ 
falo’s third and fourth rush, but the furious beast, 
his tongue lolling from his jaws, turned from each 
failure to renew the attack. 

Around them now had opened a little space, as 
the nearest of the buffalo withdrew or were forced 
back. Dick ran Mandy to one side of the wounded 
bull, got the best aim he could, and fired his pistol 
into the buffalo’s stomach. But his hand was un¬ 
steady, his eyes were dazed by frenzied watching. 
His shot grazed the bull’s hide and scarcely made 
him pause. Here Mandy took things into her own 
hands. She backed precipitately, wheeled about and 
raced through the open space to a moment’s safety. 

Dick gasped, drew his hand across his sweating 
forehead, and prepared to reload his gun, one eye 
on the bull, who had not quite discovered where his 
enemy had gone. Dick could not spare a glance for 
Taylor or Allardyce, though he thought he heard a 
shout beyond the fringes of the herd. He needed a 
handful of dry grass for wadding and sprang down 
to get it, but scarcely was he on the ground when 
the wounded buffalo came bounding up in such a rage 
that he tumbled onto Mandy’s back in frantic haste 


62 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


and let her carry him a good fifty feet from his pur¬ 
suer. But his hand grasped the wadding he needed. 
He finished loading, at a gallop this time, and turned 
to face the bull. It charged him, head bent, still 
game, though breathless and exhausted. Dick 
waited, resolute this time, until the beast was close 
upon him. Then Mandy jumped catlike to one side 
and, as the bull rushed blindly past, Dick discharged 
the gun into its body, through the heart. 

The bull staggered, groaned and fell, its huge 
weight shaking the ground. Dick drew a long sigh 
of weariness and triumph. “Good old Mandy!” 
he panted, stroking the mare’s hot neck. A shout 
reached his ears, and now, for the first time in half 
an hour, he raised his eyes and looked about him. 

“How! Meneaska!” cried a high, clear voice. 
From around a little group of buffalo an Indian 
came riding toward him. 

The savage was outlined against a low sand-hill 
dotted with twisted sage-brush, but it was not the 
hill at the foot of which Allardyce had started the 
hunt. Dick glanced behind him and another hill 
met his eyes. He was in a narrow gorge-like valley 
between two ridges. The herd, driven in by the 
other hunters, was scattered all about him. The 
wagon-camp was out of sight beyond the outer hill. 
So were Dick’s two companions. 

“I’ve come further than I thought,” he said to 
himself, and all at once the killing of the bull lost 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 63 

something of its thrill of glory. Not that he feared 
a solitary Sioux, but to the Tennessee boy the great 
plains had not yet lost their eerie loneliness. He 
felt that the sight of Allardyce or young Taylor 
would be cheerful and welcome. 

With a nod to the Indian, he turned Mandy about 
toward the outer ridge of sand-hills. As much of 
the buffalo herd as remained was fast retreating into 
ravines and arroyos offering a chance of concealment 
or escape. But the Sioux, or Dakota, brave—a gal¬ 
lant figure in his tunic of whitened buffalo-hide, his 
bow in his hand, his long hair adorned with cock- 
feathers and the tails of rattlesnakes—lashed his 
spotted pony and was in an instant at his side. 

“How, Meneaskal” he cried again, and Dick 
fancied an undertone of irony or triumph beneath 
the words of greeting. By signs and by the words 
of the Dakota tongue which Allardyce had taught 
him, he inquired for his companions. 

“Has the Dakota brave seen the white hunters?” 

The Indian nodded. “Yes, young chief,” he an¬ 
swered, in the same strange tone of ironic courtesy. 
“But they have gone back. You are alone here 
now.” 

“Yes,” said Dick. “You, too.” Suddenly rest¬ 
less, he pressed Mandy’s flanks with his knees and 
she trotted on, the Indian pony alongside. A faint, 
sardonic smile bent the savage’s thin lips. Dick 
noticed now that the Vermillion streaks on his face 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


64 

were criss-crossed with bands of yellow ocre and 
stains of purple from some woodland fruit. A 
chance fragment of Allardyce’s wilderness lore 
came to his mind. “That’s war-paint,” he thought 
in surprise, “and he’s only out hunting.” 

All at once the Indian spoke. “You are alone,” 
he said, “but not I.” He pointed with his rawhide 
whip. “Young Meneaska, look!” 

Dick looked, and, bold and courageous as he was, 
a quiver of awe and fear went through him. Out of 
a gap in the sand-hills came riding a line of Dakota 
warriors. Twenty or thirty were already in sight, 
and still they poured forth, heads gleaming with 
war paint and bright feathers, lean red bodies, 
loosely wrapped in buffalo-hide or deerskin draper¬ 
ies, bent forward as with upraised lash they urged 
their foam-flecked ponies on. 

Dick’s head began to whirl, though without a 
word he quickened Mandy’s pace. But where could 
he ride now—southward into the unknown plain 
beyond the second ridge of hills, or forward into 
the ranks of the Indians? Had his companions been 
cut down by the Sioux? Had others of the hunters 
suffered at their hands? What of the wagon-train 
and the families it sheltered? What of his friends 
there? In the agony of these thoughts, for a mo¬ 
ment the generous-hearted boy forgot his own dan¬ 
ger. But there was no forgetting it long. He saw 
the savages before him spreading out fan-like along 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 65 

the sand-hill’s base. Some had arrows fixed in their 
bows, and held them ready, their knees guiding their 
ponies on. Was he to die like this, Dick thought, 
not half-way along the Oregon trail? After break¬ 
ing from his uncle’s mild tyranny with such desper¬ 
ate rebellion, such ardent longing for adventure, 
must he fall miserably beneath Indian arrows in a 
piece of reckless folly? 

But while fear turned his blood cold and 
filled his mind with anguish, while his hand fal¬ 
tered on the rein, and Mandy shied and plunged 
uncertainly before the closing line of enemies, the 
Sioux brave who still followed on Dick’s trail out¬ 
rode him and galloped on to meet his brethren. As 
he mingled with them, bows were lowered, nods and 
phrases were exchanged. Dick’s pounding heart 
leaped with hope of respite. But all at once visions 
of Indian captivity came before him in a shudder of 
horror. Led by a mad impulse of despair, he struck 
his heels into Mandy’s sides, and swift as light she 
bore him across the intervening space and into the 
scattered ranks of the Sioux. 

Another second of time, an instant’s awkward¬ 
ness on the part of the savages closest to him, and 
he would have won through to the gorge parting 
the sand-hill. And, once on the plain, there were 
few Indian ponies whose fleetness Mandy feared. 
But the young brave past whom the little mare 
flashed in her headlong flight was quick and agile 


66 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


as Dick himself and as proved a rider. He lashed 
his pony in front of Mandy’s head. She reared and 
wheeled about. The young Indian darted close and 
caught her halter-rein. The Sioux on his other side 
now laid hold, too. Cries and menaces rose on every 
hand. Arrows again were snatched from quivers, 
savage faces hideous with war paint frowned into 
Dick’s and clear, shrill voices deafened his ears. 
But the young man who had foiled Mandy’s escape 
through the lines raised a stone battle-axe in a ges¬ 
ture of vigorous grace and cried out in words which 
Dick could somewhat understand: 

“Let him alone! Did not The Panther say he 
must not die? That we should hold him as a threat 
to the white conquerors? And now I, The Rabbit, 
say, let him live—or fight me I” 

At once the angry group around the speaker scat¬ 
tered or grew silent. Dick glanced at the young 
warrior’s sinewy limbs, resolute face and flashing 
eyes and guessed that The Rabbit was well able to 
make his will respected. The relief of life assured 
to him after the dreadful fear of instant death had 
made the blood flow back into his heart, but had 
done no more than numb his whirling brain. Only 
a desperate pride upheld him; the determination to 
show these pitiless captors, scornful of grief and 
pain, nothing of the misery and despair that wrung 
him. His face had grown deathly white beneath 
its sweat and sunburn, but he sat his little mare with 


A HOSTAGE OF THE SIOUX 67 

head erect and defiance in the cool glance of his 
eyes. The Rabbit met his gaze and Dick fancied 
that something almost like a flicker of understand¬ 
ing, even of admiration, lightened the young Da¬ 
kota’s set face. His hand still on Mandy’s rein, as 
the little mare, furious with rebellion, reared and 
balked. The Rabbit turned his pony after the ten or 
a dozen warriors who had already led the way 
southward toward a dark, overgrown ravine cutting 
the second ridge of hills. 

“Mandy knows we’re captives,” Dick thought, 
his hand stealthily lowered to stroke the mare’s hot 
flank. He turned to look back once more toward 
where the distant wagons were encamped, but al¬ 
ready the rest of the Sioux warriors had ridden up 
close behind, and their tossing plumes and feathered 
lances, their bold, cruel faces and swaying bodies 
shut out the plain from his eyes. 


CHAPTER V 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 

W HEN Allardyce caught sight of the unwary 
Dick in the midst of the buffalo herd, he tried 
with all speed to reach his side, but this was next to 
impossible for the moment, through the ranks of the 
maddened, frightened beasts who had begun back¬ 
ing and charging In every direction. However, the 
old plainsman, not easily daunted, persevered, and 
would have come to Dick’s aid at the crisis of the 
wounded bull’s attack, had not young Taylor man¬ 
aged to catch up to him on the fringes of Dick’s 
fragment of the herd. 

“What’s up?’*’ Allardyce shouted. “You going 
in, too? That young fool Ernshaw has got himself 
in trouble. I’m going after him. Hello! I don’t 
see him now. How these beasts shift about!” 

“Look, Mr. Allardyce!” cried Taylor, nervously 
catching the older man’s arm. “I was going after 
Dick myself, but that stopped me. Had we better 
turn back?” 

He pointed toward the sand-hills around whose 

68 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 69 

flanks they had just ridden—the outer ridge of hills 
leading into the narrow valley. Along its base five 
or six Indian riders were loping their ponies, half 
hidden by the sage-brush and the uneven, rolling 
ground. 

Allardyce whistled. “You’re right, boy,” he said. 
“We’ll about face. Those look like the outriders 
of a band of Sioux. Now I wonder where the rest 
are! I’d give something to know how many that 
gorge can hide! This mean, rolling country will 
shelter any number of those varmints. They know 
how to skulk behind each bit of rising ground. I’m 
going for Dick. Wait here.” 

“Dick’s come out and turned back,” said Taylor, 
pointing again. Northward on the plain, beside a 
grove of cottonwood beyond the outer sand-hills, a 
horse’s piebald head showed among a group of buf¬ 
falo cows and calves. “That’s Dick,” Taylor de¬ 
clared with certainty. “Don’t you see Mandy’s 
head? Shall we go, Mr. Allardyce? We’ve left 
the other hunters far behind.” 

Allardyce nodded, flicked his horse, and the two, 
making a difficult way through the widely scattered 
herd, passed the sand-hills and were two miles across 
the plain when Dave Henry and six other hunters 
rode to meet them. 

“The Sioux? Where are they?” were Dave’s first 
words. “A band of them crossed the plain from 
the west. We counted thirty. They rode beyond 


70 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


the sand-hills. We thought they’d cut you off. 
Where’s Dick?” 

“He’s around here somewhere. We saw him 
safely past their file,” said Taylor. 

“We saw his mare, you mean—or what we took 
to be her,” Allardyce interposed. “God forgive me 
if we’ve left the boy behind! Jim Taylor, I was a 
fool to trust you I” 

“We’ll go back,” said Dave, his hazel eyes on 
fire. “There’s twenty of us around here, all armed. 
Will you lead, Allardyce?” 

The old hunter had reloaded gun and pistol, and 
now he stared about him, his weatherworn face lined 
with anxiety. “There’s more than one side to it,” 
he said at last, his voice slow and troubled. “We’ve 
no right to risk a fight that may cost the wagon-train 
a part of its defenders. We’ve no right, I say. But 
come on! I can’t leave the boy like this !” 

“I’m sure I saw him. He must be somewhere 
about,” Jim Taylor stammered. 

“Well, he’s not,” said Allardyce shortly. “If he 
had come out ahead of us, as that little piebald we 
saw did, Dave would have met him. The head we 
took to be Mandy’s was an Indian pony’s, and its 
rider circled back at the sand-hill’s foot.” 

Dave, galloping within a quarter-mile radius, had 
already collected a group of men about him. 

“Where are the other hunters?” asked Allardyce. 

“They’ve gone on in with their meat,” said Bob 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 71 

Danvers. “They’re with the train. Lead on, Allar- 
dyce, If we’re to get back by sundown. As It Is, 
Adam Henry won’t be too pleased at camping In this 
spot.” 

With a nod Allardyce spoke to his horse and, 
Dave beside him, rode at full speed southward over 
the prairie, dodging the buffalo, oblivious now to 
the hunt which so short a time ago had roused all 
his ardor. And behind the two came eighteen well- 
armed and resolute men. In whose minds scorn and 
hatred of the savages was not tempered with Allar- 
dyce’s admiration for the fighting qualities of the 
Sioux. For most of these men were not plainsmen. 
Hardy pioneers they were, from Kentucky, Ohio or 
Missouri, but as yet unfamiliar with the heart of the 
wilderness, with the Indian nations, with the length 
of the perilous and desolate Oregon trail. 

However, their effort was now all In vain. There 
was no chance to fight, for, once within the narrow 
valley where Dick had heard the Indian brave accost 
him, the rescuers found nothing but straggling 
buffalo. 

“I ought to have stuck to that boy! I knew he’d 
get In trouble! It’s just as I feared,” said Dave, 
the flame quenched in his eyes and his voice oddly 
softened. He had liked Dick and had tried to take 
care of him. “I meant to keep after Allardyce to¬ 
day,” he added, ‘“and tell him Dick would be sure 
to plunge Into some trap. Allardyce forgets every- 


72 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


thing when he’s among the buffalo, and there was 
no one else around but an ass like you, Jim!” 

And poor Taylor, dumb with remorse, bowed his 
head in silence. 

Dave rode south past the farther sand-hills and 
surveyed the vast outer stretch of prairie. The 
Sioux had vanished. Behind what sloping ground, 
within what gorge or hill-cut they had hidden, only 
long hours of search could tell. For the moment 
they chose to be out of sight, and whether for safety 
or to prepare for attack was equally uncertain. 

“Come back, boys! Our duty is with the wagon- 
train. The Sioux haven’t gone far, and can come to 
life as quickly as they vanished. I’m sorry about 
Dick, but he’s only one among four hundred.” 

Allardyce tried to speak shortly to hide all he felt, 
as he led the way back across the plain. But no¬ 
body was deceived by his harshness, or doubted that 
he would have then and there given his freedom in 
exchange for the boy’s, had that been in his power. 

Back in the wagon-camp, as the fast-sinking sun 
gilded the wide desolation of the Platte valley and 
gleamed on the broad river’s shallow, muddy stream, 
Ruth listened with heavy heart and trembling hands 
to the talk beside her father’s wagon. As yet she 
could hardly realize that her friend was gone. And 
already her thoughts shrank from the truth, and told 
her that any uncertainty was less dreadful than a 
sure knowledge of Dick’s fate. Her father, Allar- 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 73 

dyce, old Taylor, and the rest did not see nor heed 
her, and their frank talk brought an added pang of 
horror. 

“Come away from the wagon-side, Ruth; don’t 
listen,” said Mrs. Henry. Her brown eyes were full 
of tears, her breath came fast and uneven, and once 
more Ruth marvelled that she could ever think her 
mother took things easily, or felt them less than her¬ 
self, because of her daily cheerful calm. 

“Has Dick gone away, Ruth? Have the Indians 
got him?” whispered Edwin, his lips against Ruth’s 
ear. But she was listening to her father again and 
paid no heed. 

“Either they killed him or they took him as hos¬ 
tage,” said Adam Henry. “Perhaps they mean to 
attack us, and think that the threat of death to Dick 
will make us come to terms. They’re wrong!” 

“More likely they want to threaten us with his 
death if we won’t turn back east,” said Dave. 

“Nor that either!” flashed out his father. “We’ll 
not turn back an inch for all the Sioux between here 
and Laramie!” 

“Of course we won’t,” old Taylor agreed gruffly. 
“No need to say that. Adam, have you seen the 
fellow some of our hunters brought in? He had 
met with this same band of Dakotas and had fled 
from them, half dead with fear. He’s around here 
somewhere.” 

“How did he get away from them?” Dave asked. 


74 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“They let him go, I think. He’s kind of touched,” 
said Allardyce. “The savages have a respect for 
mad people. The fellow says he’s from California. 
I’ve just been talking with him, trying to find out 
how many Sioux there were. He couldn’t tell me. 
It’s a wonder he ever got this far across the wilder¬ 
ness.” 

“Here he comes now,” said someone, “with that 
mule he won’t let go of. He’s been laughed and 
jeered at so much since we picked him up, he thinks 
we may take his precious mule away. It ain’t worth 
the hide that covers it.” 

Ruth and her mother looked out from the wagon 
and saw a man approaching, surrounded by a little 
group of mocking or curious attendants—mostly 
boys, small and big, glad of any diversion. The 
man himself was little and scared-looking, with a 
hollow-cheeked, staring face and a shock of rough 
red hair. He was dressed in a worn, greasy buck¬ 
skin frock and a pair of old army-blue breeches 
thrust into scored and tattered boots. The mule 
he led by a rawhide rope was thin and travel- 
worn, but its bright eyes looked rebellious and it 
followed its master only by dint of a good deal of 
pulling. The saddle and equipment were old and 
battered, too; the weapons in the saddle-holsters dull 
and rusty. The blanket dangling at the saddle-back 
was tied on by a bit of string from which hung also 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 75 

a knife, a flint, a tobacco-pouch and other articles 
which struck and tickled the mule’s sides. 

At sight of this singular pair, those of the men 
who had not yet seen mule or rider smiled or grunted 
their amusement and contempt. 

“What sort of horseman is he,” asked one, “to 
go about like that? What reason did he have, I 
wonder, for coming this far over the prairie?” 

“You’ll go on wondering,” Bob Danvers remarked 
to the speaker. “We’ve asked him a hundred ques¬ 
tions, and haven’t got a straight answer from him 
yet. He says he came from California and that 
he knows something we don’t know. That’s as far 
as his tongue works.” 

“He’s frightened,” said Dave. “He thought the 
Sioux had him.” Approaching the stranger, he laid 
one hand on the little man’s thin shoulder. He 
jumped and his eyes gleamed with light-headed 
alarm. The mule, seizing her chance, pulled free, 
but Dave caught the halter-rope and, giving it back 
into the owner’s eager hand, said to him with sober 
calmness: “What are you afraid of, stranger? 
Who’s going to hurt you here? We’re not Dako¬ 
tas, that I know of. What is your name?” 

Something like gratitude flashed into the other’s 
blinking, uneasy glance as the young pioneer ad¬ 
dressed him without taunt or malice. Stammering 
and half-breathless, he answered: “My name, is 
Simon—yes, it is, sir—and the other name is Lewis. 


76 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


But these fellows here are mean to me. If they’d 
been through what I have—if they’d had the Injuns 
after ’em-” 

“Did they let you go—the Sioux?” Dave asked. 
“Or did you get away?” 

Simon looked doubtful, terror darkened his face 
again as he remembered his recent escape, and he 
spoke with less assurance, his husky voice weak and 
stumbling. “I got away from—no, they let me go. 
I begged them and they stopped watching me, as if 
they didn’t care if I went or not. But no, they 
came after me! Then I met your fellows. But 
they don’t any of them know what I know—what I 
learned back there and came east for.” A look of 
simple cunning filled his eyes and with sudden firm¬ 
ness he closed his lips, but at once reopened them to 
say: “I won’t tell, either. But you’ve been pretty 
good to me, young man. Maybe I’ll tell you part 
of it sometime.” 

“All right,” Dave nodded. “You tell me if you 
want to. How would you like something to eat? 
You don’t look as if you’d had much.” 

“Much! To eat?” The poor, half-crazy fellow 
swallowed hard. “I’ve had nothing at all, partner 
—barring the jerked meat tied to my saddle-bow, 
and most of that fell off!” 

“Of course it did!” jeered a listener. 

“I can’t shoot buffalo. I’m scared of them,” 
Simon continued, and again his words were met 



THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 77 

with shouts of derision. He caught Dave’s sleeve 
with desperate pleading. “If you’d give me a bit 
of meat now, friend, or corn, or anything. And, 
oh, a cup of coffee—I can smell it behind the wagon 
there—would be grand!” 

Already Mrs. Henry was crossing the grass, in 
her hands coffee and corn bread, which the starving 
man snatched from her with frantic eagerness. 
Ruth’s pity had led her to fetch the food which her 
mother now offered, but, once she saw the stranger 
receive it, all curiosity and interest in him died away. 
She crept sadly back into the wagon and lay down 
by the twins’ side. Darkness was falling over the 
wilderness, and somewhere beyond the shadowy 
sand-hills her kind friend and companion of the 
long summer days was helpless in the hands of the 
savages. 

But Dave, filled with wonder at the feat performed 
by the simple-minded stranger in reaching the Platte 
valley at all, and at whatever odd circumstances had 
clothed him in army breeches and a trapper’s deer¬ 
skin frock, drew Simon after him when he went to 
stand guard with the first watch. He showed him 
where to picket his mule and tried to win his confi¬ 
dence enough to get some sort of connected story 
from him, if he were capable of telling one. 

The lean, rebellious-eyed mule perfectly under¬ 
stood his master, and took advantage of every fit of 
absent-mindedness on Simon’s part to get away from 


78 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


him. Dave fancied his companion was more at ease 
when the mule had been securely fastened to his 
picket-rope. But the stranger’s mind, never strong, 
had been clouded by fright and exposure, and by 
days of loneliness and privation in crossing a coun-- 
try he did not know and in which he was almost 
helpless. Dave’s patience grew nearly exhausted by 
his rambling talk, his hesitations, his contradictions, 
and not least by an air of suspicion which he took 
on at moments, as though he thought his questioner 
were trying to take advantage of his frankness. 

“Good Heavens, man!” Dave exclaimed, losing 
his temper at last. “I’m only asking you from curi¬ 
osity to know how you came to such a pass 1 I don’t 
want anything from you. I’m not trying to worm 
your secrets out! What are they worth, anyway?” 

“More than you think,” said Simon cunningly, 
but at once changing the subject, he began gabbling 
an account of his adventures in the Southwest with 
General Kearney’s army, in the campaign against 
Mexico just ended. Dave managed to make out 
that he had been a soldier in Kearney’s army for 
the last few weeks of the war, but—since his timidity 
and unreliableness made him utterly worthless—he 
either deserted or was discharged, and had made his 
way with other returning soldiers from New Mexico 
to California. 

“Then you really were in California? What did 
you do there? Is that where you come from?” 


THE MAN FROM CALIFORNIA 79 


“Well, yes, Fm from there. At least”—with a 
return of his old caution—“I’ve been there quite a 
lot. This time I came away as fast as I could, to 
get others to join me to^—to—I mean, not to do 
anything, you know. I wasn’t telling you now, was 
I?” 

“No,” scoffed Dave, “you’ve told me nothing. 
How in the world did you get this far alone?” 

“I don’t know!” Simon’s voice broke at remem¬ 
brance of the desert days and nights, of the unspeak¬ 
able fear and loneliness. “But you see,” he went 
on, “I wanted to get off with the news before any¬ 
one. There’s not a soul east of the Rockies knows 
it, and few beyond them. But I—Simon Lewis^— 
know! I know just where the best of it is!” 

“Where what is, simpleton?” growled Dave, his 
vigilant eyes searching the darkness, his thoughts 
just then turned back to poor Dick’s fate. 

“Shall I tell you, friend, shall I tell you?” Simon 
almost whispered. “There’s not another man since 
I left California has been kind to me but you. Will 
you give me coffee in the morning, and a bite to eat, 
and not let them laugh at me and go to take my 
mule?” 

“Yes,” Dave smiled. “I’ll even give you coffee 
to-night, before the second watch.” He spoke chaf- 
fingly and listened with but one ear, expecting a tale 
as foolish and futile as all Simon had poured out thus 
far. His eyes were on the desert plain, his fingers 


8o 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


grasped his rifle, his thoughts were with the Sioux 
and the gathering perils of the morrow. Dave never 
guessed that what the trembling vagabond beside 
him was about to confide in return for his momentary 
kindness would mean more to him than the menace 
of the savages or the dangers threatening the wagon- 
train. 

Simon clutched his arm, his hand and voice sha¬ 
king with excitement, and, gulping and stammering, 
told Dave all his secret. 


CHAPTER VI 


INDIAN JUSTICE 

T he next day marked a new stage of the jour¬ 
ney west, for on it the wagon-train crossed the 
Platte River and faced toward what is now the 
Wyoming frontier. 

From the Henrys’ wagon, swaying and settling as 
long lines of oxen pulled it through the shallow, 
treacherous stream, Ruth, her mother and the twins 
watched the water swirl past, dark as chocolate be¬ 
tween the steep banks bordered with spindly cotton¬ 
wood. Their hearts beat hard, for the crossing was 
dangerous work. Each wagon was steadied before 
and behind, while riders swam or waded their horses 
alongside, watching for cross currents, snags or 
quicksands and keeping the oxen in the narrow ford. 
It was new work, too, for many of these inland 
dwellers. All day long the men were in the water, 
and evening found their camp made just on the far¬ 
ther side. 

Ruth’s last impression of the prairie lying east of 
the river was a glimpse she caught as the wagon 

8i 


82 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


paused once in mid-stream and she stared back 
through the opening in the canvas, sad with thoughts 
of Dick and a sudden return of doubt and fear at 
this threshold of the great unknown trail ahead. Be¬ 
yond the fringe of cottonwood she saw an old buf¬ 
falo bull leading his cow and two young calves over 
the prairie. Close behind came three large white 
wolves, sneaking through the tall grass with an eye 
for the moment when one of the buffalo children 
should linger behind its parents. The old bull kept 
guard, though, and faced angrily about from time 
to time, making the wolves halt and slink away. 
Something in this desert picture made the girl 
crouched in the wagon glimpse a part of what the 
pioneers must face and be prepared to endure. As 
never before in her short life, Ruth felt the need of 
all the fearless spirit of her forefathers to brave 
the perils she knew still lay ahead. 

That evening in camp, the tired workers got some 
amusement out of questioning Simon Lewis and ex¬ 
citing his childish mind to make foolish answers. 
He served as a diversion, where no better was to 
be had. All day long, doing no work whatever, or 
doing it so badly that he was ordered to leave off, 
he had lost no chance to beg or steal food. He had 
paid a visit to almost every wagon in the train, had 
made away with numberless bits of bread and meat 
and cups of coffee. His face had grown less rueful, 
his spirits higher, and he even took the men’s chaffing 


INDIAN JUSTICE 83 

more easily and seemed half ready to laugh at him¬ 
self. 

As before, Dave protected him when the jokes 
and jibes became cruel. The headstrong boy had a 
kind, patient heart for the weak. He tolerated 
Simon’s begging, complaining presence, and the poor 
vagabond followed him about, sure of aid and com¬ 
fort. 

When darkness fell he insisted on sharing his pro¬ 
tector’s supper, and Dave did not repulse him. Curi¬ 
osity had risen strong within him to hear again the 
strange story poured in his ear the night before. 
Dave’s was the second watch to-night. The day’s 
hard work was done. Weary with wading hours in 
the stream, he leaned against the wheel of his father’s 
wagon and said to his companion: 

“Tell me it all again. Maybe I’ll come to be¬ 
lieve some of it.” 

On the instant Simon recommenced the story 
which filled and thrilled his unstable brain. So eager 
and absorbed was he that he never noticed that Ruth 
had crept up to her brother’s side. Dave put a sup¬ 
porting arm about her, cautioning her to silence. 
Perhaps he wanted a cool-headed witness to the tale 
he half fancied to have dreamed himself. 

“Who was with you in California?” he asked 
Simon presently. “Surely you didn’t go trapping 
and hunting by yourself?” 

“No—no. There was a soldier with me,” Simon 


84 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


explained. “He came all the way with me from 
New Mexico. He left the army, too. He knew 
about hunting, you see, and pitching tents and making 
fires and all. One day-” 

Here followed a long, rambling tale which led 
nowhere. Dave cut it short, put some shrewd ques¬ 
tions, and he and Ruth, from Simon’s disjointed 
story, learned something like this: 

Simon and his soldier partner had stayed together 
only a short time when they quarrelled. At least— 
so the listeners guessed—the other man could endure 
no more of Simon’s laziness and folly. As they 
were about to part, news came which swept like 
wildfire all through the rugged, mountainous section 
of California in which they had' camped to trap 
wolf, bear and beaver for the winter’s living. Some¬ 
thing had been found in those mountains much better 
worth searching for and collecting than skins of 
animals. The two adventurers made up their quar¬ 
rel and .decided to stick together. The truth was, 
Dave thought, that the soldier needed a companion 
and fancied that, if it came to dividing any prize, 
Simon would prove less exacting than a man who 
had all his wits. They broke camp, followed the 
bed of a shallow, pebbly stream, and began another 
trade. 

But this one, also, was full of hazard and uncer¬ 
tainty. In midwinter, just as success began to raise 
the partners’ hopes beyond all promise, the soldier. 




INDIAN JUSTICE 85 

exposing himself recklessly in a snowstorm, caught 
cold and died. Desolate, terrified, helpless, Simon 
fled from the camp where he was powerless to live 
alone, and, repulsed and laughed at everywhere that 
he sought another partner, had ended by leaving the 
state and starting east, raised to a crazy enthusiasm 
by his dream of fame and riches. 

“My partner always said if we could only go a 
ways east and spread the news cautiously, we could 
sell a part of our holdings and get all the help we 
needed,” Simon explained: “I never thought to 
come so far, but one thing and another pushed me 
on. Mostly, because I was afraid to go back. I 
kept thinking I’d strike settlements any day.” 

“Do you believe it, Ruth?” Dave whispered. 

“Who’s that?” cried Simon, starting up. 

“Only my sister. She won’t tell. Will you, 
Ruthie?” 

“No,” said Ruth softly. “Is it true, Dave?” 

“Maybe it is,” said Dave. “He’s told the same 
story twice.” 

“You don’t believe me?” demanded Simon, his 
face close to Dave’s in the moonlight, his thin hands 
clasping themselves in his mounting excitement. 
“Why, boy. I’ll prove it! I’ll show you! I was 
scared to, before, but you’re good.” 

He ripped open at the neck his old deerskin frock 
and, fumbling about beneath it, drew out two glint¬ 
ing, irregular objects, the size of big nuts, and, 


86 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


trembling, placed them in Dave’s hand. And the 
boy and girl crouched there looking at the gold 
nuggets glittering in the prairie moonlight did not 
guess that the news of the great California gold 
strike would help to change the history of America. 

At dawn on the following morning, as camp was 
broken for the day’s march, a scattered half-dozen 
Sioux warriors appeared on their ponies west of the 
river, watching the wagon-train. Adam Henry and 
Allardyce eyed them with ill-will. 

“You varmints!” cried the old plainsman, shaking 
his fist toward the distant riders. “What have you 
done with the boy? Adam, by thunder. I’d like to 
stop and fight ’em now!” 

But the train leader shook his head at this fool¬ 
hardy proposal. He knew that few of his compan¬ 
ions would have agreed to it. They were sorry for 
Dick, but he was in all likelihood dead, and their 
families’ safety and the progress of the train came 
first with them. The Platte crossed, the spirits of the 
pioneers had risen. Even the skulking Indians had 
little power just then to alarm them. The land that 
opened before the wagons now was rugged, semi- 
mountainous, but rich in abundance of every kind 
of game. Buffalo, deer, antelope, bighorn sheep 
and feathered prey could be shot down at will. But 
among them grey wolves roved in savage packs and 
skeletons of animals whitened along the trail. 


INDIAN JUSTICE 87 

Ruth’s thoughts had not much lingered over 
Simon’s story. She was too busy pondering other 
things. Grief for Dick, anxiety at Dave’s new rest¬ 
lessness, eager wonder at the unknown country 
spreading so strange, vast and glorious before her 
eyes—all these things seemed nearer and more real 
than the Californian’s tale of far-off riches, in spite 
of the nuggets she had seen and handled. More¬ 
over, before the day’s march was ended, an incident 
happened which turned everyone’s thoughts in one 
common impulse toward defence. 

Ruth was alone with the twins in the wagon at 
sundown, just after the night halt was called. Her 
mother had gone to tend a sick neighbor and her 
father and Dave were both on duty. Kate Allar- 
dyce scrambled into the Henrys’ wagon, panting, 
her quiet face alight with some strong feeling. 

‘‘What is it, Kate? Quick! What’s happened?” 
Ruth caught her friend’s arm and drew her down 
beside her. She was unused to seeing calm, serious 
Kate give way to excitement. Even Dick’s misfor¬ 
tune had not roused her to impulsive speech, though 
Ruth knew Kate’s heart ached for the kind boy who 
had more than once befriended her. 

Kate stammered, fighting for breath: “I heard 
father tell it all, so I know it’s true, and not just 
someone’s story.” It was like Kate, Ruth thought, 
to explain herself and back up her words even at 
such a moment. Kate caught her breath and con- 


88 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


tinued: “Father told Mr. Taylor and your father 
and some others what happened just a little while 
ago behind the train, among the animals grazing on 
the prairie. He said it was a wicked thing, an un¬ 
provoked attack which would bring us all misfor¬ 
tune. He said that Jim Taylor and some other boys 
guarding the cows and mules met in with two or 
three of the Sioux scouting around, and Jim and 
another boy—thinking of Dick—fired plumb at them 
and shot them dead. Then up came Dave and went 
hard for Jim Taylor, and told him he had done Dick 
harm enough already. And my father says he spoke 
truth. Now the Sioux, if Dick is captive, will want 
to kill him, and maybe they’ll come after us, too, 
for that’s Indian justice.” 

“But they stole Dick away! I know just how Jim 
Taylor felt!” cried Ruth, her cheeks burning. 

“So do I,” said a voice beside the wagon, and 
Dave, hot, frowning and troubled, thrust in his 
head. “I know how he felt, Ruth, and so do we all. 
But we can’t shoot the whole Sioux nation in re¬ 
venge for Dick. They’ve been scouting around us 
all to-day. Father and Mr. Allardyce and the rest 
have been puzzling out their game. We think they 
want to bargain with us. But now”—Dave struck 

his hand hard on the wagon-wheel in his anger_ 

“that’s done with! We’ve fired on men who showed 
no signs of fight—and on the Dakotas, the best of 


INDIAN JUSTICE 89 

the Indian warriors. They’ll not wait for revenge. 
So Kate’s father says, and he knows the savages.” 

“They’ll fight us now?” Ruth panted. 

“Yes. I’m telling you plain, for you’re no cow¬ 
ards. They’ll come before dawn, we think, after 
the moon sets. We’ll drive them back, don’t fear, 
but the Sioux will charge three times. It won’t be 
quite as easy as when the Pawnees came.” 

It was one thing, Ruth thought, as that night she 
lay on the wagon floor in the darkness, her heart 
thumping against her ribs at every trifling sound, 
to be in a fight and quite another to be helplessly 
waiting for it, with no more to do than hide. 

“I’d rather be in it! I’d rather face the danger 
than lie here 1” she told herself a dozen times over, 
body and soul rebelling against this shivering inac¬ 
tivity. 

Even her mother had a share of work. She made 
ready lint and bandages, carried food and water. 
For all through these long hours of the night not a 
sound, other than a wolf’s howl, broke the stillness; 
not a solitary Indian could the watchers see on the 
moonlit plain. And Ruth, charged to guard the 
twins, to keep them crouched low in the wagon, 
which, wheels locked against the wagons on either 
side and canvas walls reenforced by chests and logs, 
formed part of the line of defence, could only wait 
and listen. 


90 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“Maybe they won’t come,” she said to herself 
over and over, but with little hope beyond the 
thought. She was learning, with each hard day’s 
trial, to face the worst and know that it must be 
borne before it passed. 

But long waiting with straining ears finally 
brought a dull weariness. Ruth had dozed for hours 
at the twins’ side when from out of the darkness 
just before the dawn rang the hideous war-cries of 
the Sioux, and, starting up trembling, she saw that 
the moon had set, that the prairie w^as enveloped 
in shadow, and felt the wagon struck random blows 
as men ran or stumbled past with shouts and panted 
orders. 

The war-cries grew louder; they rose clear, high 
and furious. Their horrid menace chilled Ruth’s 
blood and the courage oozed from her heart, but in 
another instant shots crashed out from the rifles of 
the defenders and bullets sang low over the plain. 
The cries of the attackers wavered and broke, chang¬ 
ing to howls of rage, then rose once again in a chorus 
of defiance. 

Through the noise of the rifle-fire Ruth heard the 
sound of light blows striking all around her, but in 
her terror and confusion she did not guess what they 
were until close above her head came the rip of 
tearing canvas, the breath of something passing like 
a keen wind by her cheek, and a blow against the 


INDIAN JUSTICE 91 

other wagon-side. Reaching out her hand in des¬ 
perate questioning, she touched the feathered shaft 
of an arrow still quivering where it had struck. 

Now the twins were awake and crying with fear 
and bewilderment. The little black Indian dog 
woke, too, and howled in company. Their voices 
in Ruth’s ear by moments almost drowned the noise 
of the rifle-shots and the cries of the savages. Men 
blundered against the wagon; shots cracked beside 
it, arrows struck the wheels, and voices cried out 
commands or shouted warnings and encouragement. 

In every lull Ruth heard her mother’s soft, steady 
tones at the wagon-tail where she handed out sup¬ 
plies, offered coffee and water to the nearest defend¬ 
ers. And Ruth’s terrified heart rebelled at her own 
inactivity. She would gladly have taken her mother’s 
place, sure of strength and courage to help, if only 
work were given her. But her duty was here. She 
held Edwin’s and Edwina’s writhing, twisting little 
bodies close against the wagon-floor below the 
deadly arrows’ flight, and the ache in her strained 
arms and shoulders became in her dizzy head a part 
of the fight itself and of the defenders’ pain and 
suffering. 

But when the Sioux charged again, with sudden, 
irresistible longing to catch a glimpse of what was 
happening outside, she pushed back a fold of the 
canvas, and, hitching up on one elbow, peeped out 
with infinite difficulty from time to time. 


92 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


She saw the left front wheel of the wagon, and a 
man’s dim figure crouched beside it behind a saddle’s 
shelter. With the flash of the rifle at every shot he 
fired she caught sight of Dave’s face, powder-stained 
and streaming with sweat, eyes intent and shining. 
Then darkness again, the cries of the Sioux and the 
rain of arrows. The twins, worn out with crying, 
lay whimpering or clutching Ruth’s hand. A shock 
came against the wagon-wheel. Ruth raised herself 
on aching arms again and in the starlight saw 
struggling figures, heard the report of Dave’s pistol 
and saw an Indian fall at Dave’s feet and another 
leap off into the darkness. 

The war-cries died away. The shots grew scat¬ 
tered. All along the lines came a lull in the fight. 
But Ruth whispered to herself Dave’s words: 
“They’ll charge three times—the Sioux.” 

Now in the quiet which, in spite of random shots 
and the noise of voices and running feet, seemed 
almost silence after the horrid din, Ruth heard her 
father speaking close by, and at his angry tone she 
held her breath in new alarm to listen. 

“Didn’t I tell you?” Adam Henry demanded. 
“Didn’t I come back here to tell you? You can’t 
draw your men closer here! You can’t strengthen 
the defence about our wagon! That’s not fair 
play!” 

Dave answered in the sulky tone of suppressed 


INDIAN JUSTICE 93 

rebellion Ruth knew so well: “I wasn’t, father! I 
was doing nothing of the sort! This was the point 
the attack came from. It shifted back after you 
ordered me along.” 

“You had only to obey. And that’s what you 
won’t do! Is a soldier any good who can’t take 
orders?” 

“But—it’s different here. It’s every man for 

himself. I drove them back-” 

“They’ll come again. And when they do you’ll 
follow me, or I’ll know why! What’s that hand¬ 
kerchief around your arm? An arrow struck you? 
I know your recklessness! You’ve not the sense to 

keep behind your barricade-” 

Ruth groaned with regret and pity as she listened. 
Where was her mother now, and why was she not 
here to come between father and son? Ruth read 
her father’s thoughts so well. She knew the anxiety 
for Dave’s safety which ran through all the old 
pioneer’s upbraidings; the tyrannical desire to keep 
the boy at his side, submissive to him. But Dave 
would see no affection in his father’s harsh words. 
Each one of them smarted, struck at the pride of 
his young manhood, hurt his self-confidence, turned 
him hard and bitter. Ruth could not endure it. 
She was about to scramble from the wagon and 
mediate as best she could, when from the silent 
prairie came the light flutter and dull thud of ar¬ 
rows, and once again wild war-cries filled the air. 




94 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


The last attack was short, but more bloody than 
the two before. When, after ten minutes’ fight, the 
Sioux left their dead upon the plain and faded like 
shadows into the darkness, a moment of awe and 
horror took possession of the victorious defenders. 
Indians had broken through the wagon-line and 
their bodies lay scattered over the enclosure where 
the terrified animals were herded together. Little 
brush fires were now lighted as the women of the 
train set about dressing wounds. Five of the colon¬ 
ists had been killed by arrows—one of them a 
woman. Fifty men and six women were injured, 
though many of these had light flesh-wounds such as 
Dave’s. But in the confusion, in the scarcity of 
bandages and water, with the sight of freely flowing 
blood as arrow-heads were pulled from arms and 
shoulders, the victory seemed hardly bought. Yet 
old Allardyce called it a great victory, and spoke 
courageous words to the weary and grief-stricken 
colonists. 

“We’ve beaten them, friends,” he said. “They 
won’t come again—not this side Fort Laramie. The 
way is clear.” 

And one listener, hearing this assurance, felt of 
the handkerchief tied about his arm and went off 
in search of a poor coward called Simon Lewis, who 
had spent most of the fight hidden among the 
animals. 


INDIAN JUSTICE 95 

From outside the wagon, where at last she had 
found work to do at her mother’s side, Ruth caught 
sight of Dave and Simon conferring together a few 
steps away. She set down the water-pail she car¬ 
ried; the dipper dropped from her hand. In an 
instant she had crept past the Allardyces’ wagon and 
was at her brother’s elbow. “Dave, what are you 
saying?” she panted. “Oh, Dave, what are you 
going to do?” 

Annoyed by the too clear-seeing affection which 
had made his little sister read his thoughts, Dave, 
steeled against her, answered angrily: “Nothing, 
Ruth! Can’t I say a word in peace? Let me 
alone!” But as he spoke his hardened heart re¬ 
proached him, for he caught Ruth’s arm and seemed 
about to speak again. 

“Ruth!” cried her mother’s voice. “Where arc 
you? The twins are awake and frightened.” Dave 
released his hold and Ruth turned slowly back. 

Half an hour later, as the first streaks of dawn 
lighted the sky, Ruth crept again from the wagon. 
Mrs. Henry was off tending the wounded. The 
little brush fire over which she had heated water 
still burned low, and by its flickering light Ruth 
thought she saw something on the wagon’s canvas 
side—some black lines like letters scrawled there. 
She snatched up a burning twig and read, painfully 
written with a charred stick, these words: 


96 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“Mother, the Indians didn’t get me. 
I’ve gone off with Simon. I’ll come 
back to you sometime. 

“Dave.” 


CHAPTER VII 


BROTHER AND SISTER 

R uth thought she had borne all she could bear 
that night. In spite of the confusion and 
anguish following on the fight, relief and gratitude 
for the victory possessed her, like a kind of blessed 
calm after a storm of peril. But now as, by the 
fitful light of the burning twig in her hand, she read 
Dave’s scribbled words and realized all their cruel 
meaning, the horrors of the fight seemed bearable 
by contrast, and the courage and resolution she had 
prayed for then seemed little to what she needed 
now. 

Dave was gone—gone away into the unknown— 
perhaps forever! Unless she, Ruth, could find him, 
catch hold of him, implore him to come back and 
forget his father’s harshness. For an instant Ruth’s 
own anger rose hotly against the selfish, headstrong 
boy who cared more for his own will than for his 
mother’s grief. But to reproach Dave in her heart 
was idle now. There was not an instant to lose. 
She let fall the glowing twig and clenched her 

97 


98 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


hands together in the darkness. In her indignation 
against Dave, in the longing for her brother, which 
fought even with that anger, she forgot herself so 
entirely as to forget her fear of the prairie outside 
the camp. Almost before she knew what she did she 
was outside the wagons, stumbling through the long 
grass, her moccasined feet striking on stones, hum¬ 
mocks or the scattered bones of animals. 

But once on the great plain, the early morning 
wind sweeping over her on every side, the silent, 
vast darkness as yet hardly lightened, the memory 
of the fight so lately ended, of the war-cries of the 
Sioux, of the deadly singing arrows, came over her 
feverishly excited mind with a thrill of terror. She 
stopped short, gasping, all the reckless courage of 
the moment before gone out of her. 

“I can’t go on! I can’t! I can’t!” she moaned 
aloud. But with one step back to the wagon-train 
the thought of her mother’s face when she read 
those words on the canvas made her pause and wring 
her hands again together. “He can’t have gone 
far! If I had someone with me, I might dare.” 

Suddenly she thought of Kate—quiet, sensible, 
brave-hearted Kate. With the thought she was run¬ 
ning back toward the lines, which were little guarded 
now in the confusion following the fight. 

Not a sentry caught sight of Ruth, not a voice 
challenged her. It was in this hour of relaxed watch¬ 
fulness that Dave and Simon had got away unse'en. 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


99 


Mrs. Henry was absent tending the wounded, the 
men were helping to reestablish order, and Ruth was 
left alone to carry out her impetuous resolve. 

She climbed into the Allardyces’ wagon and found 
it empty. But once outside again she caught sight 
of Kate coming back with empty buckets in her 
hands. 

“Kate! It’s Ruth! I need you! Don’t speak 
loud!” Ruth whispered. “Where are you going 
now?” 

“Father sent me to bed. What’s the matter?” 
asked Kate, her patient voice unsteadied with fear 
and watching. 

Ruth burst out uncontrollably, a sob choking her: 

“Oh, Kate I Dave’s run off with the man from 
California I He’s only this minute gone 1 Come 
with me, just a little way out on the prairie, to beg 
him to come back? Don’t refuse me, Kate! I’m 
afraid to go alone, but with you I’d dare it. Say 
you will!” ^ 

Her hands clutched Kate’s thin shoulders, her 
pleading voice would hear no refusal. Kate made 
no comment, showed no amazement, but asked in 
her simple, docile way: 

“How can we catch them, they riding and we 
afoot? Dare you take a mule to follow them?” 

“Of course I do! Come quickly! There’s a mule 
hobbled near us, next the Taylors’ wagon. He be- 


>» > 
> ^ 


100 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


longs to Jim and he’s pretty gentle. Can you get up 
behind me? Only hurry!” 

Beyond the Taylors’ wagon stood a small mule, 
his sleepy head bent over one wheel. Ruth’s trem¬ 
bling hands slipped the hobble-rope from his fet¬ 
locks, untied the halter and climbed to his bare back, 
while the mule started, snorting with surprise, and 
turned his head to catch a glimpse of his rider. 

“It’s I, Sandy! You know me!” Ruth panted, 
patting his neck. “Come, Kate!” 

Kate scrambled up behind, her knees against 
Sandy’s flanks, her arms about Ruth’s waist. 

“Had we better go, Ruth?” she faltered with 
deep misgiving. 

Ruth did not hear her. She spoke again to the 
mule, who walked reluctantly toward the wagon- 
barrier. Here the girls were forced to dismount to 
coax and drive the mule through a narrow gap be¬ 
tween two wagons. At this fully ten minutes were 
lost, including one shrinking, frightened halt when 
men went by with rifles to take up guard. For an 
instant, at sight of their dim figures, Ruth thought 
of calling out to them, of confessing Dave’s flight 
and begging their aid. But she knew it would mean 
delay before they believed her story or agreed to 
follow. Perhaps they would not consent to go at 
all, or to let her go, either. And if they did, and 
Dave returned with them, his father would know of 
his departure and would be bitterer than ever against 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


lOI 


him. Just here in her thoughts, Sandy jumped the 
barrier to Ruth’s side, and, Kate following, the two 
girls mounted again and the mule set out at a gentle 
trot over the long grass of the plain. 

Ruth turned to look back. Behind them the can¬ 
vas-covered wagons glimmered, like sails on a dark 
sea. Ahead was vast, empty desolation. The stars 
had paled and the morning wind sighed and whis¬ 
pered. 

“Which way, Ruth? Which way shall we go? 
Let’s not go far,” Kate breathed against her com¬ 
panion’s ear. 

The mule, equally unwilling, slowed to a walk and 
shook himself. 

Ruth’s wild, unthinking eagerness had cooled. 
Her folly came over her like a chill of reason. “If 
I’d come right away, I might have caught him,” she 
said aloud. “But now it’s no use!” Again a sob 
broke her voice. “We’ll go back, Kate. He’s gone 
for good.” 

Kate was silent. She even held her breath. And 
with the ceasing of Ruth’s own voice she herself 
stopped breathing to listen. The mule, too, had 
pricked up his long ears. Over the prairie grass 
sounded the light, muffled thud of galloping hoofs. 
Ruth’s leaden heart bounded. 

“It’s they, Kate I It’s two riders I Can you make 
out which way they’re going? Will Sandy find 
them?” 


102 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“He might. He knows Dave’s mule,” Kate whis¬ 
pered doubtfully. “They’re riding away from us, 
Ruth. The hoof-beats aren’t so clear.” 

Ruth had struck her moccasined heels into Sandy’s 
sides. The mule unwillingly trotted forward over 
the plain, his ears cocked to listen, his nostrils snif¬ 
fing the cool air. Ruth turned to look back. The 
canvas-covered wagons were a distant, blurred line 
of white against the fading darkness. Her heart 
misgave her. Her fingers shook on the halter rein. 
But thought of Dave out there ahead, of the near¬ 
ness of his strong, comforting presence, of the glori¬ 
ous peace of mind that would be hers when she had 
brought him home again, outweighed her trembling 
fear. Again she kicked Sandy’s sides and urged the 
reluctant mule forward, while on ahead the hoof- 
beats grew louder by moments, by moments fainter, 
but always audible to the girls’ straining ears. 

Kate said: “They’re not going straight. They’re 
riding back and forth, or in circles. Don’t you 
hear? Now they’re on our right again. They’re 
nearer, and then they’re farther off. Ruth, how 
do you know it’s Dave at all?” 

A thrill of terror came like a shudder down 
Ruth’s spine, but with a hard effort at self-control 
she answered, trying to speak confidently: 

“Of course it is I Oh, Kate, I can see them now!” 

The riders suddenly appeared in the faint shadowy 
light, from below a swell of rising ground. First 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


103 


their horses’ ears showed, then their heads, then the 
heads and shoulders of the riders, vaguely outlined 
against the sky. The horses were lean, loping 
ponies. The riders’ heads were bare, and eagle 
feathers were thrust into their flowing locks. 

“Go back!” Kate stammered. 

Sandy was glad to obey Ruth’s tug at his halter. 
He felt no kinship with the ponies ahead. He 
swerved about and made for camp at a gallop, 
urged on by four moccasined heels digging into his 
flanks. But the Indians’ keen eyes and ears had been 
longer aware of Sandy and his riders than Ruth and 
Kate guessed. And their sense of direction on the 
prairie was sharper even than that of the Missouri 
mule who galloped uneasily toward the vague outline 
of the wagon-train. In a minute they were abreast 
of Sandy. The two girls cowering on his back had 
no longer force to press the mule on, nor could their 
strangled voices urge him. The nearest savage 
caught Sandy’s halter-rein, at which he reared and 
pulled strongly, but without avail. Desperation lent 
motion to his riders’ tense and trembling limbs. As 
the Indian caught hold of the mule, the two girls 
slipped from his back and plunged through the long 
grass toward the distant camp. 

The grass grew high about their waists. Their 
feet stumbled at every step. The camp—unbearably 
dear and longed for!—looked miles away. But, 


104 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


despairingly, they clasped each others’ hands and, 
panting, struggled on. 

It was hopeless, Ruth knew from the first mo¬ 
ment, but it was not in nature to yield tamely without 
some effort at escape, however vain. She knew they 
were lost. There was not one bit of hope left in her 
heart. Behind them, she heard the Indians talking 
together in the clear, flowing Dakota tongue. She 
heard, too, when Sandy, with a vicious tug, snapped 
his rawhide halter and raced across the prairie 
toward the camp. 

So hard had been the short life of the pioneer’s 
daughter, so stern its lessons of loyalty and fairness, 
that even at this dreadful moment Ruth found time 
to think: “I’m glad Sandy’s got free. He’ll go back 
to Jim.” And, with a bitter awakening of remorse: 
“I led Kate away! It’s all my fault!” 

The Sioux rode closer, following beside the pant¬ 
ing fugitives. Another instant of delay, a kind of 
cat-like playing with their captives’ terror, and each 
Indian bent lithely down, seized one of the girls in 
his strong arms and lifted her before him on his 
pony’s back. Ruth struggled frantically to free her¬ 
self. An iron arm held her. Whips cracked, and 
the two ponies, bounding forward on fleet hoofs, 
fled southward over the plain, while in the east the 
dawn grew swiftly brighter. 

In the first horror of the capture, Ruth could 
think of nothing, feel nothing but her own des- 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


105 


pairing terror—do nothing but twist desperately in 
the relentless grasp of her captor, whose muscles did 
not yield one inch to the struggles of her strong 
young limbs. Nor did he and his companion ex¬ 
change any more words. Day was now breaking 
and the savages were intent on reaching concealment 
before sunrise. 

Another mile, and a ridge of abrupt, broken 
sand-hills rose dimly out of the pale morning light. 
Across one there cut a shadowy ravine marked by 
scraggly pines and junipers. The Indian ponies 
plunged into the defile, pebbles rattling down the 
steep descent before their hoofs, while the riders 
were enveloped in cool, foggy air and brushed by 
overhanging shrubs and branches. It was dark 
again in here, but the ponies did not hesitate. An¬ 
other five minutes’ run and they emerged from the 
ravine, scrambled into the open, galloped across a 
grassy level, and entered a wood smelling of pine 
and leading up a gentle slope. Beyond it the trail 
descended again. The full day now revealed pines 
growing thickly on the rugged hillside. Below the 
hill spread the great plains again, rolling southward 
toward the west, where hills bounded the horizon. 
The undulating prairie lay half in light, half in 
shadow, as the rising sun, yellow as gold, poured 
over it. Rough sage-brush was its carpet, a dull, 
pale green which covered hill and hollow. 

Near at hand, beneath the rocky hills’ shelter. 


io6 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

were pitched the lodges of a Dakota village. Smoke 
rose from the morning fires, and, at sound of the 
approaching riders, some keen-eared young braves 
streaked with war-paint, leading tired ponies, turned 
to stare up the winding trail. 

At the first lodge below the pine trees, a big¬ 
framed teepee, well built of straight poles and cov¬ 
ered with fine buffalo hides, the two Indian riders 
paused and swung their captives to the ground. Out 
from behind the curtained doorway peered a squaw’s 
broad, copper-colored face, her little black eyes 
shining with astonishment, her sleek hair tied about 
with strings of beads, her cheeks streaked redder 
with vermilion. 

The Indian who had held Ruth cried out to the 
squaw in the Dakota tongue, pointing to the girls, 
who stood clutching each other in the companion¬ 
ship of helpless misery. The squaw nodded, glanced 
keenly at the white children, with no more than 
eager curiosity in her look, then motioned them to 
follow her inside the lodge. The two Dakota braves 
rode on down the line of lodges. 

Ruth spoke close in Kate’s ear, though her heart 
pounded so she felt as though no one could hear 
her voice: “Don’t show we’re afraid! Act as if 
we didn’t care! Think what your father said!” 

Kate nodded, her face set and pale, her black 
hair tumbled by the windy ride. Ruth knew that she, 
too, was remembering the evening’s talk around the 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


107 


fire, back on the frontier of the prairie—how far 
away it seemed! Allardyce had told over his stock 
of Indian lore, and among many other bits of ad¬ 
vice and caution, Ruth and Dick Ernshaw—another 
intent listener—had been struck by this: “When 
you’re unlucky enough to be with Indians, put on a 
bold, self-confident air and you’ll be tolerably safe. 
If you look uncertain, scared or pitiful, they’re dan¬ 
gerous.” 

Outside the lodge sounded the shrill voices of 
women and children gathering in evident devouring 
curiosity to see the captives. Some few poked their 
heads and shoulders in—little shouting boys and 
girls, their gleaming copper skins half covered with 
ragged tunics of deerhide, and some laughing, big- 
eyed papooses, crawling about their mothers’ and 
sisters’ feet. One and all cried out, questioned, 
pointed, and could hardly be made to retire even 
by the threats of the squaw who w^as the captives’ 
guide, though she made menacing gestures and drew 
her charges into the dark, ill-smelling interior of the 
lodge. 

It was dark at first, though some light filtered 
from the top where the poles met. Ruth and Kate, 
still clutching each others’ cold, trembling hands, 
looked about them with shrinking, fearful eyes. 
They saw some buffalo robes thrown on the ground, 
some earthen pots and bowls, stone arrow-heads, 
and, to Ruth’s amazement, a rifle. She knew some 


io8 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

of the Sioux had rifles now, bought from traders 
around Fort Laramie. In fact, a few of the wounded 
in the wagon-train that very night had received rifle 
wounds. Still the idea was a new one that the sav¬ 
ages had learned to fight the whites with their own 
weapons. 

Over in one corner of the lodge a year-old baby 
was listlessly playing with a heap of feathers, pine- 
cones and rubbish. Near him lounged a young In¬ 
dian girl of whom all the captives could sec in the 
dim light was a slender, graceful figure wrapped in 
a soft deerhide tunic, and a pair of shining, watch¬ 
ful dark eyes. 

She made no sign of welcome nor so much as 
moved from her place while the older squaw mo¬ 
tioned the girls to a seat in one corner of the lodge 
and, trotting off for a moment, returned with a 
wooden bowl of spring water and a second half- 
filled with corn-meal mush, which she set down in 
front of them. 

It was hours since either Ruth or Kate had eaten— 
not since supper-time of the evening before, and the 
long night of fear and peril had nearly exhausted 
them. But they choked at sight of the food their 
captors offered. It cost them all their strength and 
courage to sit there dumb and motionless instead of 
breaking into cries and sobs of loneliness and des¬ 
pair. 

“Dave’s gone, and I’ve gone, too! Oh, poor 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


109 


father and mother! Why did I try to bring Dave 
back? Who can comfort them now?” In her 
agony of mind Ruth clenched her hands together, 
staring at the ground, lest the Indians should read 
the grief and misery in her eyes. Presently she grew 
calm enough to raise the bowl of cool water to her 
lips. Her throat and Kate’s were parched. Be¬ 
tween them, they drank all the water and felt some 
physical relief. 

The squaw had squatted down before them, study¬ 
ing the white girls with her bright, unchanging eyes. 
It was impossible to guess what she thought or felt, 
or if pity for the young captives’ wretched fate en¬ 
tered at all into her mind. Was she rejoicing at 
their misery, or was she simply curious, wondering? 
All at once Ruth felt she could no longer bear to 
know nothing of the woman who, however little 
friendship she might feel, was just then their only 
guardian and companion. She leaned forward, 
touching the squaw’s deerskin frock. Her lips stam¬ 
mered over the few Dakota words old Allardyce 
had taught Dick Ernshaw and herself in the long, 
peaceful summer days. “What is your name?” she 
asked. 

The squaw looked surprised, then suddenly 
smiled. Visibly amused at the Dakota words on the 
young Meneaska squaw’s lips, she answered willingly 
enough: “My name is Fawnfoot, and I am wife to 


I 10 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


The Hailstorm, that brave, matchless warrior who 
brought you captive.” 

Ruth understood enough of this reply to think to 
herself drearily: “It didn’t take much bravery to 
bring me here.” 

The squaw Fawnfoot seemed now to lose interest 
in her charges. Something outside the lodge at¬ 
tracted her ear and she was about to rise when Ruth, 
eager to conciliate her, to establish a bond of talk 
between them, spoke quickly again: 

“And those two—what are their names?” She 
pointed toward the little child and the lounging girl, 
who, now that Ruth saw her clearer, looked about 
the same age or younger than herself. 

The squaw rose to her feet with a quick, agile 
movement, but over her shoulder as she turned away 
she answered carelessly: “My son is called Thun¬ 
der-Bearer and my daughter, Willow-Bough.” 

The Indian names neither Ruth nor Kate could 
translate into English at that moment, though the 
melodious syllables stuck in their memories. Nor 
had they time to ponder them, for the lodge curtain 
was thrust back to admit The Hail-Storm himself, 
followed by two tall, sinewy Dakota warriors 
wrapped in white buffalo hides, their dark features 
impassible, their bearing filled with conscious dignity, 
black and red eagle feathers dangling from their 
uncut locks. 


BROTHER AND SISTER 


III 


“Behold the captives!” exclaimed The Hail- 
Storm, extending his arm in a commanding gesture 
toward the corner where Ruth and Kate were 
crouched. 

The two girls with one accord rose and faced him. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE CAPTIVES 

R uth and Kate were terribly tired as well as 
frightened and despairing. Their knees shook 
under them, their faces were pale beneath the tan of 
the prairie sun, and the light in their eyes had a 
feverish and unnatural gleam. Ruth had lost one of 
her moccasins in her flight on foot toward the wagon- 
train. Her hair had come loose and hung in a 
tangled mass about her face. Kate was white with 
misery. Thoughts of her father’s bitter grief shot 
through her, almost harder for the patient, unselfish 
child to bear than her own misfortune. But at this 
moment the two, by silent and mutual consent, by a 
kind of undying pride, put aside weariness and grief, 
and, mustering all the little strength remaining to 
them, stood erect, unshrinking, and looked the In¬ 
dians in the eyes with steadfast gaze. 

The two braves who followed The Hail-Storm 
gave at first but one glance at the captives, nodded 
and were about to turn away. These little white 
squaws held no interest for them except as the men- 

II2 


THE CAPTIVES 


113 

ace of their death served as a threat to hold over 
the Dakotas’ white enemies. 

But the courage, the quiet steadfastness in the 
captives’ eyes recalled the Dakota warriors’ atten¬ 
tion. They looked with some curiosity, with sur¬ 
prise, not quite reaching admiration, at the girls’ 
attitude of calm resolution, and one of them uttered 
some grunts of comment, to which The Hail-Storm, 
with a chuckling laugh, replied; 

“No; they’re not timid. Are they not daughters 
of the Meneaska who brought death to us last 
night?” 

“Daughters!” observed the other with some dis¬ 
dain. 

“Nevertheless-” persisted The Hail-Storm, 

with the air of one who knows white men’s ways. 

The other had ceased to listen. The squaw Fawn- 
foot raised and flung back the buffalo-hide curtain 
and the sun streamed into the lodge and lighted up 
its dimness. The men passed out with their stately 
tread and Fawnfoot, returning, stood motionless, 
staring at the girls. The sun shone full on Ruth’s 
tangled hair and turned it yellow as gold. Fawnfoot 
exclaimed : 

“Look, Willow-Bough! Look at her hair! I’ve 
never seen anything like that before! She must be 
called Sunlight! That is her name here.” 

“Humph!” growled the girl from her corner. 



FIGHTING WESTWARD 


114 

“And what shall you call the other, the dark sister? 
We’ll call her Prairie Hen!” 

Willow-Bough tossed from her knees the plaits 
of straw with which she was lazily weaving a basket, 
and, rising on swift, silent feet, brushed against Ruth 
without another word and went out of the lodge. 
Fawnfoot sat down beside the door, again oblivious 
to the captives, and, pouring corn into a stone bowl, 
began to pound it into meal. The ordeal of the In¬ 
dians’ visit had used the last of Ruth’s and Kate’s 
endurance. They dropped down in a shadowy cor¬ 
ner of the lodge and, clasping each other’s hands 
for surety, had not put half of their unhappy 
thoughts and fears together before they fell asleep. 

Their dreams were filled with a restless, half¬ 
wakeful knowledge that they were not alone; that 
at moments the lodge was crowded with peering, 
curious faces, and echoed with the eager voices of 
children. But when almost roused, they shut their 
eyes again and fell heavily asleep once more, in spite 
of noise, in spite of that leaden weight of misery 
within their breasts. Sleep was relief from the 
dreadful present, and they were so desperately 
weary that it came readily enough and would not be 
shaken off. 

When they awoke at last, to their amazement it 
was almost dark. Outside the lodge door, which 
faced the west, rare colored gleams of sunset streaked 
the sky. The captives sat up and, with a new sense 


THE CAPTIVES 


115 

of their misfortune, felt their hearts sink and their 
throats choke. But sleep had restored some strength 
to their young, healthy bodies. They met each 
other’s eyes and, brought up from babyhood in cour¬ 
age and self-reliance, the pioneers’ daughters tried 
to look what they did not feel, and even to exchange 
a feeble smile of hope and affection. 

“Poor old Kate, it’s all my fault!” Ruth sighed, 
her voice husky for all her efforts. 

It was strangely comforting to hear Kate answer 
in her old, patient, quiet tones: “No, it isn’t, Ruth. 
I agreed to come. I wanted to find Dave, too. 
Anyway, we can’t help it now.” 

“No, we can’t. Kate, don’t let them know we are 
afraid! Father’s told me of captives who escaped 
or were set free. Oh, Kate, let’s go on hoping, or 
else I can’t bear it!” 

“Of course we will!” But Kate’s voice, Ruth 
thought, was not so confident as her own. Kate 
would endure more cheerfully than she, but Ruth 
must hope for both. It was the thought of those 
left behind, in miserable uncertainty of their fate, 
which was more than either one could bear to dwell 
on. They not only did not mention those in the 
wagon-train to each other, but they dared not think 
of them at all, more than in passing pangs of 
longing. 

Where was the wagon-train now? Had it moved 
on? Ruth did not question Kate about this, either. 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


116 

But she knew her father’s stern justice well enough 
to guess that the loss of his son and daughter would 

t 

not, any more than had Dick’s capture, delay the 
colonists for long in the perilous Sioux country. 
Allardyce had spoken of the perils thronging the 
plain between the Platte and Fort Laramie—all 
the tribes were roused against the Oregon settlers. 
Sioux, Crows, Shoshones^ Cheyennes and Blackfoots 
menaced them, enmities forgotten in hatred of the 
white invaders. Would Adam Henry linger here 
because of his own grief? 

One overpowering need distracted the captives 
now. Hunger had possession of them, gnawing, im¬ 
pelling hunger, sharp enough to drown everything 
else for the moment. Ruth got up and approached 
Fawnfoot, who sat nodding near the door. Ruth 
sat down beside the squaw and held out her hands. 

“Fawnfoot, please give us food?” The squaw 
opened her eyes, her first glance toward the baby, 
Thunder-Bearer, who lay whimpering by her side. 
She listened unsmilingly to Ruth’s request, but finally 
got up and from the recesses of the lodge brought 
a bowl of boiled meal into which she threw a piece 
of dried buffalo meat. Ruth took it gratefully. The 
meal was without salt, the meat tough and dry, but 
the girls emptied the bowl and could have eaten as 
much again. But they dared not ask for more, once 
their hunger was fairly well allayed. What they 
longed for now was to go out into the open, and for 


THE CAPTIVES 


117 

even a few steps outside the stifling lodge in the cool 
evening air they would willingly have faced the curi¬ 
ous crowd and the unknown perils of the Indian 
village. But Fawnfoot, with a scowl, barred the 
way. Her former good humor had vanished. She 
seemed now to think her charges only a tiresome 
burden. She motioned them back into the further 
half of the lodge. There, whispering sadly together 
as darkness fell, they presently lay down to sleep 
once more. 

Ruth heard the girl Willow-Bough creep in and 
lie down near her. By the moonlight sifting through 
the teepee top she even caught a glimpse of her face, 
and a flashing glance cast from her dark eyes in the 
direction of the captives. But it was hours after 
this that a child’s crying roused both Ruth and Kate 
from troubled sleep. They sat wearily up to hear 
Thunder-Bearer’s moaning cries and the shrill la¬ 
ments of Fawnfoot as she ran here and there about 
the lodge with her swift, agile movements. She 
talked to herself, too, or to Willow-Bough who held 
the crying child in her arms. At first neither Ruth 
nor Kate could understand her panted, anxious 
words. But out of endless repetition they at last 
made out one phrase, spoken again and again: 

“Three sons have I lost I Three sons have I lost! 
If this little one dies too. The Hail-Storm will not 
forgive me ! Oh, make haste, make haste I” 

The lodge was now brightly lighted, for into the 


ii8 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


smouldering fire built on stones near the centre, 
Fawnfoot had dropped a piece of buffalo fat which 
made bright flames dart up a foot or more, illumi¬ 
nating every corner. It shone on the squirming 
baby wrapped in a furry buffalo-robe, on his face 
distorted by pain and weeping, and on the girl who 
held him on her knees. Ruth looked into Willow- 
Bough’s face and could see no sympathy nor pity 
there, but only sullenness, as though she begrudged 
to her little brother her lost hours of sleep. When 
she heard the captives stir, the Indian girl raised her 
head and darted shrewd, watchful glances toward 
them. Her black hair, twisted into plaits with cords 
of doeskin, hung down on either side of her smooth, 
still young face. Ruth thought she had never met a 
gaze so unfriendly as that which Willow-Bough 
turned on her. And her heavy heart felt this cold¬ 
ness from the one among her captors nearest her 
own age, one whose expressive eyes and deft move¬ 
ments showed, in spite of her sullenness, a quick wit 
and keen understanding. 

Ruth, proud though she had been when The Hail- 
Storm and his friends had faced her, felt neverthe¬ 
less a captive’s dread and loneliness, and would 
gladly have made friends with the young Dakota 
girl had Willow-Bough showed her even tolerance. 
But that cold, searching glance was too daunting, too 
unkind. Ruth did not go near the baby, but instead 


THE CAPTIVES 


119 

said to Kate, who, apt pupil of her father, spoke 
the Dakota tongue far the better of the two: 

“You ask her what’s wrong with the baby, Kate. 
How hot he must be, poor thing, in all those furs 
beside the fire!” 

Kate approached Fawnfoot, who still kept up her 
meaningless round of the lodge and her breathless 
laments, but before Kate could attract her notice, 
the squaw gave a sudden shout as if in relief or grati¬ 
tude. The lodge door parted and The Hail-Storm 
entered, followed by a little old wizened Indian, 
scantily clad in a ragged piece of buffalo-hide, his 
head, neck and arms wound about with amulets, and 
his thin hair tied up on the crown of his head with a 
variety of bits of bone, wood and feathers. The 
Hail-Storm himself looked stern, angry and troubled. 
His eyes ignored the lodge’s other occupants to fix 
themselves upon his son. With a sign he motioned 
Willow-Bough to lay the child upon the ground. 

Kate and Ruth crept back among the shadows 
beyond the fire’s bright glow. Fawnfoot and The 
Hail-Storm squatted down by Thunder-Bearer’s 
side. The little old man stood before the baby, 
bending forward, the firelight on his prominent 
cheek bones and deep-set, burning eyes. Reaching 
his thin hands toward the child, he raised his bare 
feet in a springing, rhythmic step. Now he quick¬ 
ened his pace and began to spring up and down on 
the ground in a kind of dance, his hands ever moving. 


120 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


his voice crooning out a low, vibrant chant almost 
lost in Thunder-Bearer’s redoubled cries. The 
watchers sat motionless, intent on every movement. 
The old man sprang higher, quicker, his song rose 
to a wild melody, monotonous, plaintive, mournful. 
He tore off his amulets, waved them over the child’s 
body, touched him with each in turn, then recom¬ 
menced his dance, his gestures, his song. 

Ruth and Kate, tired of standing, sank down near 
the lodge’s buffalo-hide walls, while still the little old 
man tirelessly danced on. And still the baby howled 
and twisted himself from side to side, and the par¬ 
ents sat watching in hopeful anxiety. At last the 
medicine man seemed to feel, or pretended that 
he felt, successful. He stopped short, panting and 
trembling with exhaustion. He nodded vehemently, 
pointing toward the child, who had cried himself 
quiet for the moment. The Hail-Storm rose, too, a 
measure of confident relief lighting his face, and, 
motioning Fawnfoot to raise the lodge curtain, he 
and his guest passed through. 

Fawnfoot returned to kneel beside the baby. He 
was quiet and she knelt motionless, watching. But 
in a minute he moved, moaned and reapened his 
eyes. Fawnfoot reached out her hand and, touching 
his forehead, gave a low cry of disappointment. 
Thunder-Bearer began to toss about in the folds of 
the buffalo-skin and to scream aiouQ once more. 


THE CAPTIVES 


I 2 I 


Fawnfoot seized him in her arms, and herself re¬ 
newed her wearisome lament. 

During this scene Ruth had felt Interested enough 
almost to forget herself and her own trouble for 
the time being. The helpless, sick baby with the ter¬ 
rible-sounding name lying there In such pitiful misery 
could not hut appeal to the girl who had nursed and 
tended Edwin and Edwina for four years past. Her 
bewilderment at and contempt for the medicine man’s 
remarkable methods were no stronger than her de¬ 
sire to take Thunder-Bearer In her arms, free him 
from the stifling buffalo-robe and see If she could 
guess what ailed him. Here was need for help, 
and perhaps help which lay In her power to give. 
And in Ruth’s Idle wretchedness the chance for ac¬ 
tion, for usefulness of any kind, for companionship 
with even the Dakota squaw, seemed precious. If It 
meant no more than distraction from her own tor¬ 
menting thoughts. 

But she feared that her stammering Dakota words 
would not be understood by Fawnfoot In her dis¬ 
tress, and again she appealed to Kate to speak for 
her. 

“Ask her to let me look at the baby, Kate. Say 
I want to see If I can help him.” 

Kate, unless she meant to resist strongly, never 
argued a question nor expressed surprise. Now she 
nodded, quietly rose, Ruth with her, and, approach¬ 
ing the squaw, translated Ruth’s petition as best she 


122 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


could. Again Ruth felt Willow-Bough’s unfriendly, 
suspicious gaze upon her, but Fawnfoot, stopping 
short in her laments, listened, hesitated, groaned 
with anxiety, stared up at Ruth as the girl knelt 
beside her, and finally, with a swift, impulsive ges¬ 
ture, thrust the crying baby into her arms. 

“Take him, then, Meneaska maiden! What can 
Sunlight do to help my little one? The medicine 
man could not help him! The fire-devil has hold of 
him still!” Her voice rose in a wail of grief. “His 
head is burning! Bring the white man’s spells to 
cure him! What care I how it is done, if he is 
saved?” 

Ruth understood but little of this. She was bend¬ 
ing over the baby on her knees, touching its fever- 
hot cheeks, unwrapping the clumsy buffalo-robe from 
its little red-brown body. 

“Ask for water, Kate,” she said. “He’s feverish. 
A bath will help.” 

Fawnfoot ran lightly off to bring her stone bowl 
filled with cold spring water. Kate put it on the 
fire a moment, dabbling her fingers in the water till 
it lost its chill. Then she untied a little cotton ker¬ 
chief from about her neck, dipped it in the water, 

and, wringing it out, put it in Ruth’s outstretched 
hand. 

“How, little white squaw! What is this? Cold 
water on my sick son? No! No! It takes great 


THE CAPTIVES 


123 

heat to conquer the fire-devil!” cried Fawnfoot, 
catching at Ruth’s arm. 

Kate quietly protested: “Fawnfoot, you agreed 
to let us work our medicine. Have patience.” 

The squaw drew back, muttering. Ruth sponged 
Thunder-Bearer’s hot, panting chest and shoulders. 
Glad to be free of the stifling fur robe, the baby 
turned over on his stomach and feebly kicked his 
legs about, though he still cried plaintively. 

“Look there, Kate 1” cried Ruth, seizing the child’s 
knee. 

In the flesh of the Indian baby’s thigh was a deep 
unhealed cut, inflamed until purple and crimson rays 
showed on the coppery skin. The leg was sore and 
swollen, and hot to the touch. Ruth held the child 
closer to the firelight. 

“No wonder he’s sick! Look, Kate, they’ve not 
half cleaned the cut! Poor baby-” 

At the feel of the wriggling little body in her arms 
Ruth was so sharply reminded of Edwin’s and Ed- 
wina’s babyhood that with the pang of longing that 
shot through her she felt for an instant numb and 
helpless with misery. But Kate spoke calm and reso¬ 
lutely in her ear, and with an effort she roused her¬ 
self. 

“They leave arrow-heads and knives lying around. 
How can he help getting hurt?” Kate asked, wring¬ 
ing the kerchief out again. “We’re going to hurt 



124 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

him more, Ruth, but it can’t be helped. I’ll hold 
him still.” 

Fawnfoot made no more protests. Though Thun¬ 
der-Bearer had not ceased to cry and now screamed 
far louder, she sat silent, as though somehow grown 
confident. Ruth and Kate cleaned the cut, and 
bound it with bandages torn from their cotton pet¬ 
ticoats and soaked in cool water. Then Ruth 
sponged the child off again, asked of Fawnfoot a 
light deerskin robe, and, wrapping the child in it, 
held him and rubbed his squirming back until his 
sobs lessened, he gasped and moaned, and finally 
fell asleep. 

Fawnfoot still sat silent and intent, hope and fear 
almost equally expressed upon her watching face. 
Ruth motioned her to make no sound, and herself 
laid the baby down on one corner of the buffalo- 
robe, away from the now dying fire. 

With Thunder-Bearer’s sleep, the interest that had 
sustained the captives died down too. They crept 
away, spiritless once more, and tossing about rest¬ 
lessly awhile, presently sank into uneasy dreams. 

It was daylight, the hour of sunrise, and, through 
the lodge-curtain half thrown back, a golden glitter 
lighted the scattered teepees of the village and 
glowed on the pale-green plain beyond, when Fawn¬ 
foot stole over to Ruth’s side. Ruth was roused 
from sleep by the squaw’s touching her hair and 
face with swift, light fingers. She opened her eyes 


THE CAPTIVES 


125 

and, staring up, sat suddenly erect in anxious ques¬ 
tioning. 

“What is it, Fawnfoot? What do you want of 
me?” 

But as she spoke her apprehension faded, for the 
squaw’s eyes were sparkling, a smile lighted her 
broad dark face, and the hands that touched Ruth’s 
head and shoulders were soft and friendly. 

“Your white-man’s medicine drove away the fire- 
devil!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with joy. 
“Oh, Sunlight, his head is almost cool and he is still 
sleeping! Look!” She pointed to where Thunder- 
Bearer lay motionless on the buffalo-robe, his lips 
slightly parted, his breath coming quiet and even as 
he slept. 

“Sunlight,” the squaw continued, “you have saved 
his life! Do you think Fawnfoot will forget? Take 
this, little Meneaska, and eat well. Awake Prairie 
Hen, too, who aided you with the charms that cured 
my son. It was the white charms you laid about his 
leg that did it. They are powerful!” As she spoke, 
Fawnfoot pushed toward the captives a plentiful 
bowl of corn mush and boiled buffalo meat. “Eat 
well,” she said. “For to-day you must walk far 
across the prairie. The village moves westward 
when the sun is high. Even now I must pull down 
our lodge and pack its poles and hides behind The 
Hail-Storm’s ponies.” 

“What!” cried Kate, who, now awakened, under- 


126 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


stood the Dakota tongue first of the two. “The 
village moves on to-day? Oh, Fawnfoot, where 
shall we go?” 

“I cannot tell. Where the chiefs lead,” answered 
the squaw carelessly, her eyes still lingering on 
Thunder-Bearer’s sleeping form. “It is time to go. 
Already we have camped in this unlucky place close 
on a moon, and many of our warriors are dead from 
the white men’s fire-arrows. Chief Black-Snake, so 
they say, talks of joining the Dakota and Ogillallah 
villages, as on the night of the attack, when the 
white nation trembled and was afraid, and you were 
taken captive. But fear not,” she went on kindly, 
“I am your friend now, despite your fathers’ en¬ 
mity. I would not lose you, nor the great medicine 
you have brought. Eat in peace.” 

But as Fawnfoot’s soft voice spoke these reassur¬ 
ing words, from out the lodge’s shadowy recesses 
' came Willow-Bough, stretching her slim arms, her 
keen dark eyes turned toward the captives with even 
sharper unfriendliness than on the day before, as 
though the favor they had found in her mother’s 
eyes but fed her own dislike. 


CHAPTER IX 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 

“OLOWER, slower! Be cool and wary, not hot- 
kj blooded and eager I Leave that to the buffalo, 
or you will soon be their victim. This is not like 
the Meneaska’s hunt—from the safety of a swift 
pony’s back! To kill buffalo in the red man’s way 
needs courage and patience. Of the first you have 

plenty, but of the second-” 

For an instant The Rabbit’s voice was scornful. 
He stood before Dick Ernshaw, who had thrown 
himself, breathless, down on the prairie, over which 
blew a cool morning breeze from the Black Hills, 
bounding the horizon. All about them the land was 

A 

cut up into rocky hills and gorges, only here and 
there rolling in grassy stretches straight away. Buf¬ 
falo were scattered in groups near and far; some, 
huge and menacing, watched the hunters with shaggy 
heads lowered, some grazed in stupid indifference; 
others, miles away, showed mere specks along the 
hillside. 

Dick caught his panting breath—for he had 

127 



128 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


crawled and run and ducked along the ground for 
half a mile—and answered his mentor as best he 
could in the Dakota tongue. 

“If The Rabbit will wait a little I will show him 
that his lesson is not in vain. Be assured that be¬ 
fore this sun sets I will bring down a buffalo.” 

The young Indian smiled, nodded, flung his grace¬ 
ful length upon the grass by Dick’s side, his bow and 
quiver beside him. He spoke again in the dignified, 
deliberate tone which made him seem older than 
his years, for he was Dick’s own age. 

“My white brother has yet to learn that this hunt 
is only for the agile and resolute—courage alone 
is not enough. For this I have brought you here, 
to teach you what is a merit and a pride to the Ogil- 
lallah brave. First am I in this feat among the 
young men of our village. I would have you, O 
Brother, share my glory.” 

Here followed a lesson from The Rabbit on the 
difficult art of “approaching” buffalo, a method little 
used among the whites. The hunter goes afoot and 
must be prepared to crawl and run and hide and 
stoop until every muscle aches and his head swims 
with heat and exertion. He must know every detail 
of the country; the course of the wind; the habits of 
the buffalo; and he must be a first rate shot. Dick, 
up to the time of his capture, had never used a bow 
and arrow. Small wonder if he did not come up to 
The Rabbit’s difficult standard, or if he still clung 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 129 

to his rifle. This The Rabbit had guarded for him 
from would-be plunderers, though the young Indian 
thought little of the rifle for hunting buffalo. Ar¬ 
rows, he maintained, are always ready at hand with 
no need to reload. 

While The Rabbit talked, Dick’s thoughts—for 
he understood the Dakota tongue only with a good 
deal of effort—began to wander. He lay back on 
the grass, crickets and grasshoppers jumping over 
him, and was filled with a great amazement at his 
own strange fortune. 

It was but two weeks since his capture, back there 
in the Platte valley, two hundred miles or more, he 
guessed, southeast of where the village was now 
encamped. And in thosLe two weeks he had passed 
through the fear of torture and death, had faced 
captivity, had found a friend where one was least 
looked for, and had been made a sharer of Indian 
life. A dweller among Ogillallahs—one branch of 
the Dakotas—he lived now as remote, as absolutely 
cut off from the wagon-train, from all his old hopes 
and ambitions, as if he had never known them. And 
yet here he lay peacefully resting after the hunt, 
ready to prove his prowess in The Rabbit’s eyes, 
healthy and full of life rather than despairing. Was 
it, he asked himself, because, to his hopeful nature, 
the idea of prolonged captivity among the savages 
was simply unthinkable? The boy felt rather as 
though he had been whisked off somewhere in a 



130 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


dream and would presently return to his old life, to 
remember these days as shadowy and unreal. 

The Panther, Dick’s first captor, had seen in him 
but a possible bait to lure the colonists to submis¬ 
sion. But, oddly enough, by one of those caprices 
which Indians sometimes show, the wrath of the 
village had not risen against Dick with the death 
of the Sioux scouts at Jim Taylor’s hands. By that 
time the Ogillallah village had moved on westward, 
intent on a great buffalo hunt, and news of the killing 
and of the fight which followed came too late to 
them for instant action. The lodges echoed with 
angry talk, with boasts of a fresh battle and of the 
white men’s sure defeat and flight. Threats, too, 
were uttered against the captive, but The Panther, 
wily and patient, thought to reserve Dick for a later 
time. The villages were scattered; another attack 
on the wagon-train was not yet possible. All might 
be lost by too much haste—including the plentiful 
spoils of buffalo, so needful for the coming winter. 
This much The Panther spoke aloud; another and 
as strong a reason for leaving Dick in peace he did 
not mention. 

* If there is anything romantic in the hard, pitiless 
Indian character, it consists in friendships of a most 
devoted nature. When The Rabbit had seized 
Mandy’s halter and had checked her escape through 
the gap in the sand-hill, the young Ogillallah brave 
had looked into Dick’s defiant eyes, had read all the 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


131 

superb self-control which hid the Southern boy’s ar¬ 
dent feelings of terror and dismay, and felt a glow 
of admiration in his heart. It was then that The 
Rabbit undertook the captive’s defence from the 
angry, bloodthirsty crowd around them. Then and 
there he saved Dick’s life. And from that hour The 
Rabbit forgot the difference of blood and race, of 
language, thought and feeling, and gave to Dick his 
friendship. He shared with him the best of all he 
had to give; he opened to him the strange, savage, 
fascinating secrets of Indian life. At the price of 
his own body, if any dared gainsay him, the young 
brave bought Dick’s freedom. And so powerful was 
The Rabbit among the young hot-bloods of the vil¬ 
lage that Dick went unmolested—no longer a cap¬ 
tive, but one with the Ogillallah; no longer name¬ 
less, but known by the name The Rabbit had given 
him. Eagle-Eye he was called by his new associates, 
and in these brief days that already seemed almost 
a new lifetime, his courage and endurance, his fair¬ 
ness and gratitude—all qualities dear to Indian 
hearts—had won him a place apart from The Rab¬ 
bit’s protection, had won him for himself both 
friends and enemies. 

Yet, for all this, he was still captive. Not for a 
moment did this tolerant treatment, nor even The 
Rabbit’s generous friendship, loose in Dick’s mind 
the bonds of his captivity. So much as he had 
gained was hard-won and he would keep it. He 


132 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


would keep his friend’s respect and that of the tribe 
by his proved courage, coolness, dignity, and aptness 
at some lessons of savage lore. By his own wits he 
must defend what he had gained, step warily, ever 
facing toward the distant hope of freedom. Dick 
was stout-hearted enough. He did not quail at 
thought of what lay before him. Something bold 
and adventurous in the young Southerner’s blood 
welcomed hazards even while the weaker part of him 
shrank from them with a boy’s fear of pain and 
humiliation. Just now he had little time for thought. 
The Rabbit’s friendship brought with it arduous en¬ 
deavor. 

His lesson in “approaching” ended, the young 
Ogillallah sprang up with a supple bound and, 
sweeping the wilderness of plain and foot-hills with 
his keen glance, exclaimed: 

“Look, Eagle-Eye! A young bull has wandered 
from the herd and is grazing alone. The wind is 
in your favor. Will you try your skill?” 

Dick sprang up, rifle in hand, scanning the uneven 
plain before him and the young buffalo a hundred 
yards away. Long afterwards, when he remem¬ 
bered that afternoon’s hunt, comparing it with all 
the pains and perils of his life among the savages, 
Dick thought of it as one of the hardest trials of 
his life. 

He was strong and active; his wind was sound and 
his muscles limber. But only an Indian can endure 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


133 


without agony the endless crawling, stooping, bursts 
of breathless speed, and motionless waiting which a 
buffalo hunt on foot requires. The hunter has no 
fleet horse to trust to; no way of darting at his 
quarry or avoiding its attacks except his own skill 
and cleverness. But Dick would have suffered worse 
pain sooner than yield and confess failure before 
The Rabbit’s watching eyes. Though his parched 
throat burned and smarted, though his sore, strained 
muscles ached to the limit of endurance; though his 
dizzy head swam, as sweat streamed down, half 
blinding him, he crawled and ran and crept up to 
the young buffalo, who, far from staying conveniently 
quiet, wandered on as the mood took him. After 
three quarters of an hour’s back-breaking toil, Dick 
raised his rifle, steadied his trembling hands, and 
shot the beast through the heart. Then he fell over 
near the dead buffalo, for the moment as lifeless 
and incapable of motion. 

The Rabbit bounded up to him with a shout of 
triumph. The young Dakota had followed noise¬ 
lessly behind Dick all the way; had hidden and 
crawled and wriggled as painfully as he. But the 
smooth, copper-red skin was hardly moist; the sav¬ 
age’s breath came little quicker for the exertion, and 
his muscles were not tired, for he proceeded to leap 
and dance about the dead buffalo, flourishing a skin- 
ning-knife over the furry hide. 

“You did well, white brother I” he told Dick ex- 


134 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


ultantly. “My pupil is apt. I thought once you 
were going to lose him when you shied off toward 
the wind, but you remembered in time.” Then, as 
Dick slowly rose to his feet, wiping his forehead 
with the torn sleeve of his deerskin frock. The 
Rabbit caught his arm, and added with sudden 
earnestness: “But keep your eyes well open all about 
you, friend, even while watching a quarry. Look 
here I You passed them blindly by, and only their 
sleepy noonday mood saved you !” 

Still panting, Dick followed his guide a dozen 
steps back over the plain to where some little hil¬ 
locks were half covered with scrubby sage and 
grasses. The Indian, keeping his distance, pointed 
to where about the foot of one hillock lay stretched 
a large rattlesnake, its body the size of a man’s 
arm, its small, bright eyes alert as with one swift, 
sinuous movement it coiled and prepared to strike. 
No swifter were the big snake’s motions than those 
of the young Indian. While the sudden dry noise 
of the rattle filled Dick’s ears, while he backed away, 
his hands hurriedly raising his rifle. The Rabbit had 
fitted an arrow into his bow and, almost without 
taking aim, with one easy twang of the bow-string, 
shot the snake through the head and pinned it by the 
arrow to the ground. 

“Look! There’s the other! Try your luck, 
Eagle-Eye!” The Rabbit pointed to a second and 
smaller reptile whose furiously vibrating head rose 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


135 


from its coiled body as the rattle of its shaking 
tail sounded on the still air. Dick raised his rifle, 
advanced a few steps, aimed with all the careful 
skill of his old training as a rifleman, and shot the 
second snake, shattering its head. 

The Rabbit seized the long, scaly bodies and held 
them up. “Your shot was straight, O Brother I For 
killing rattlesnakes the fire-arrow is good—unless 
you need a second shot!” 

“I stood nearer than you—a full ten feet,” said 
Dick honestly. “And an arrow swerves in the wind. 
You took wonderful aim.” 

“Sunset is near,” said The Rabbit, ignoring this 
praise with dignity. “We can roast a little of your 
bull’s meat now, if you are hungry, before we drag 
the carcass back. Have you your stones that call 
the fire? If not, dry sticks will serve me. It was a 
good hunt and you have learned much to-day. Over 
there, in the hills that lie to westward, we will shoot 
grizzly bear.” 

“Those mountains—are they what the Meneaska 
call the Black Hills?” asked Dick, with a sudden 
ache of longing. Where were his friends of the 
wagon-train? Had they come this far west on the 
Oregon trail, now left far to the south, and how 
had they fared at the Sioux’ hands? 

The Rabbit nodded. “In two days we shall reach 
the mountains,” he said, “for such is Chief Big- 
Horn’s wish. This is all a part of the land of the 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


136 

Dakotas. There we will join other villages and talk 
of many things.” Then, as though realizing what 
those things would be, and how nearly they concerned 
Dick’s people and his safety. The Rabbit added with 
as much impetuosity as the cool, self-contained young 
warrior ever showed: “But you are my friend, 
Eagle-Eye—in peace or in war. You are an Ogil- 
lallah.” 

Dick was silent. 

The lodges of the Ogillallah village were pitched 
beside a small running stream which flowed scantily 
from out a defile cut through the first of the pine- 
clad foothills. The plain below was dried and arid, 
with short, coarse grass and broken, sandy ridges. 
The steep sides of ravines showed white and scarred, 
and covered with the tracks of grizzly bears. But 
near the village, pine trees clung to the edge of the 
defile, and Dick, weary and goaded by thirst, 
breathed the pungent odor, listened to the thin sound 
of falling water, and thought with longing of his 
native hills pouring their crystal streams out in such 
profusion; of the plunge and gurgle of plentiful 
water among shaded rocks, and of the cold drops 
trickling from long green mosses. 

But even this shallow, brackish draught tasted de¬ 
licious to his lips when he and The Rabbit knelt to 
drink. Then the Indian, untired as a mountain goat, 
led the way with noiseless bounds up the slope and 
among the half-deserted lodges of the village. 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


137 


At his own lodge, which he shared with a brother, 
a cousin, and now with Dick, The Rabbit paused a 
moment. There was nobody in sight but a few 
squaws and children, who greeted the hunters and 
their spoil of meat with shouts of welcome. But in 
a moment a figure which had seemed to stand on 

watch at one end of the line of lodges advanced at 

_ • 

a run to The Rabbit’s side. 

“How, Brothers I Why are you so long absent?” 
cried the newcomer, a young man of about The Rab¬ 
bit’s own age. “The braves are in council in Chief 
Big-Horn’s lodge. Come quickly!” 

“Where are the other brethren?” asked The 
Rabbit, following without waste of time. 

By this name of brethren The Rabbit signified his 
ten or twelve brothers and cousins, young men near 
his age, of whom he was the acknowledged leader. 

The Rabbit’s companion, whom Dick knew as one 
of this band, by the name of Red-Deer, made an 
amicable sign of his head to the white captive and 
led the way without more words. 

In the lofty lodge of Chief Big-Horn a fire was 
lighted which a squaw kept blazing high with lumps 
of buffalo fat, and all about it were crowded the 
braves of the village, those most distinguished by 
age, wisdom or valor. And into this company The 
Rabbit made his way without hesitation, his two 
companions following, while the rest of his brethren 
came and stood about him. 


138 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Chief Big-Horn sat on a pile of buffalo-skins, his 
shrewd old face lined and scarred, and smeared with 
patches of ocre and vermilion. His bright eyes 
darted a glance at the young warriors as they entered 
and he gravely nodded a welcome, as did his breth¬ 
ren—a band of stalwart men at his back—sons, 
brothers, cousins, nephews—all able to uphold the 
chief’s wisdom by their strength, lest young men like 
The Rabbit think all the valor lay on their side. It 
must be a ticklish task, Dick thought, to lead the 
Dakotas. Among a people where individual talent 
counted for so much, a chief would have need of 
tiger strength and weasel cunning to hold at bay all 
the restless, ambitious spirits waiting to supplant 
him. 

Dick was one of The Rabbit’s brethren now; he 
shared the respect enjoyed by them throughout the 
village. In The Rabbit’s eyes he was an Ogillallah. 
Yet he looked about him without much confidence. 

Dave Henry, in Dick’s place, would have stolidly 
borne his captivity until his natural boldness or a 
burst of fury against his captors led him to try for 
freedom. He would have felt nothing better than 
contempt for the savages, nor even have attempted 
to understand them. But Dick had too much imagi¬ 
nation not to share to some extent his Indian com¬ 
panions’ feelings; not to realize their qualities and 
defects; not to respond somewhat to the thrill and 
wonder of the strange savage life. This very imagi- 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


139 


nation made him see clearly how soon his apparent 
safety might vanish; how precarious was the defence 
given by The Rabbit’s protection and his own repu¬ 
tation for courage. 

There had been silence in the lodge when the 
young men entered. About the walls a few elders 
sat smoking, bent and motionless. The younger men 
were mostly standing, for there was not room for 
them else within the narrow space. But they stood 
immovable as statues and listened in absolute silence 
when Chief Big-Horn began to speak. 

The chief’s voice was clear and musical; his words 
were deliberate, like those of a thoughful man. Dick 
understood him better than anyone he had heard 
use the Dakota tongue. The first phrases were a 
sort of introduction usual with Indian speechmaking: 
praise of the Dakota tribe in fanciful metaphor, with 
recounting of their past deeds of heroism, real or 
pretended, and sounding promises of their glories 
still to come. But soon Chief Big-Horn’s eyes grew 
sharper and more intent. His whole figure seemed 
to draw together with the earnestness of his speech, 
and, as his talk grew less flowery, less confident, by 
so much the more it grew to Dick’s ears more sincere 
and more convincing. 

“Ogillallah braves! I have warmed your blood 
with memories of the deeds of your fathers: of the 
enemy’s blood they spilt; of the land they conquered. 
Now, old men, grey in wisdom; now young men. 


140 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


strong in promise, listen to words of warning! Lis¬ 
ten and believe, for if you do not heed, then, by the 
deathless courage of our forefathers, I swear to you 
that all is lost 1” 

A stir and murmur woke the silence of the listen¬ 
ing assembly. But Big-Horn raised one lean, sinewy 
red hand and again ^all was silence. 

“Have we conquered our enemies?” he asked in 
ringing tones. “Have we plundered and beaten 
down the Pawnees, the Snakes, the Crows and those 
other weaker nations, unfit to face us in battle, unfit 
to sit with us in council? Dare they now leave the 
print of their moccasins on our plains? Here lies 
our triumph. But listen, brothers! I have not yet 
begun! 

“Upon these our plains you see herds of buffalo— 
a common sight enough. These beasts, the prey of 
our bold hunters, supply us with the necessaries of 
life. They build the walls of our lodges, they clothe 
our bodies in the cold moons, they spread our beds, 
they feed our fires, they stretch our bow-strings, our 
cordage, our trail-ropes; they make for us saddle- 
coverings, skin vessels to hold water, boats to cross 
streams. They give the very meat that sustains us; 
the means of trade and barter. 

“You know all this, O Brothers. It is familiar 
talk. You wonder that a chief should speak it. But 
listen once more. Without the buffalo the red man 
cannot live. When the buffalo is no more, we too 


DICK AND THE DAKOTAS 


141 

shall perish. These great plains are yet covered 
with countless herds; westward they outnumber the 
stars, and even our mighty hunters could not slay 
them all in many moons’ endeavor. But, fellow- 
warriors, if we let another nation seize our plains, 
go westward before us, take possession where the 
great stone mountains rise? What if this nation, 
strong and cunning, settle upon us 1’ :e the locust; 
slay our warriors with fire-arrows, s atter and kill 
our buffalo herds, wrest our land from us? Then, 
brothers, we shall see the day, or our sons and grand¬ 
sons shall see it, when the red men, shrunken in 
number, poor and helpless, will hide in the barest 
corners of the great country once their own! Then 
shall the mighty name of the Dakotas be scorned 
upon the tongue of the white conqueror, and we shall 
take the mildewed corn and the tattered lodge-cover¬ 
ing which the Meneaska disdain!” 

At this point in the discourse such a tumult of 
protesting shouts and cries arose, such a furious 
movement of agile limbs and brandished bows and 
lances, that the lodge-poles cracked and the buffalo- 
robe walls were wrenched apart. But The Rabbit, 
even though laboring himself under strong excite¬ 
ment as he drank in the chief’s eloquent appeal, yet 
remembered Dick’s presence. He laid one hand on 
the captive’s shoulder and stood so beside him, while 
all around him Dick met menacing or furious glances, 
as the savages, forgetting their former admiration 


142 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


or tolerance of the stranger, longed to vent their 
roused indignation upon this hostage of the enemy 
race. 

Sick at heart and suddenly shamed at thus taking 
part, even as a passive listener, in these savage coun¬ 
cils where his countrymen were feared and hated, 
Dick longed to get out of the heated lodge and away 
from the sound of the chief’s voice. But pride for¬ 
bade that he should slink away before the threaten¬ 
ing glances of the Ogillallahs. He even shook off 
The Rabbit’s protecting hand, and stood alone, re¬ 
turning with defiance the flashing hatred in many 
of the eyes around him. He was not frightened at 
that moment. Pride upheld him. His head was 
cool and his hands steady, and as he stood there the 
Tennessee boy thought to himself with sudden vision; 

“The chief is right to hate us. We shall spread 
to the Pacific coast and the Indians will be scattered. 
But it won’t be easy.” 

The tumult died down. The chief recommenced 
speaking in a calmer tone. Dick left The Rabbit’s 
side and went out of the lodge. 


CHAPTER X 


WHITE men's daughters 

A t Black-Snake’s orders, the village in which 
Kate and Ruth were held captive had moved 
northwestward toward the hills, over the borders of 
what is now South Dakota. Crossing a region of 
high valleys, watered by streams along the borders 
of which grew bullberry, currant and wild cherry 
bushes, the Indian horde soon reached a series of 
rough and difficult defiles. Through these the whole 
swarm of Indians would pour down together; a 
savage multitude—armed warriors, romping chil¬ 
dren, gayly dressed girls, giving a picturesque life 
to the scene, in spite of the confusion of scrambling 
ponies, tired, drudging squaws and over-loaded 
sledges. 

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky; the 
ground was painful to walk on—either hard-baked 
earth or flinty rocks. Ruth and Kate were strong 
and used to walking, yet they sank down each night 
so utterly weary they cared little where they lay, nor 
gave thought to the perils of the wilderness. Fatigue 

143 


144 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


can be great enough to chase away fear and even 
grief. They forgot wolves and rattlesnakes; they 
could not stay awake long enough to think about their 
own miserable plight. All the strength left to them, 
beyond that they must use to plod on, they kept for 
another purpose. Their pride of race made the 
young pioneers hide from their captors all signs of 
pain and wretchedness, showing a bold, stolid front 
to the Indians’ curious or malicious glances. 

“What, no tears from the little Meneaska 
squaws?” asked a Dakota warrior on the third day 
of the march. 

“Did I not tell you,” responded The Hail-Storm, 
with the air of one who has seen the world, “that 
they can hide their fear like braves? They are 
white men’s daughters.” 

The Hail-Storm well understood that the captives 
were both grief-stricken and afraid, in spite of their 
efforts at concealment. It was their restraint that 
he admired; their powers of deception. Indian self- 
control consists rather in hiding signs of emotion 
than in conquering the emotion itself. The Hail- 
Storm watched the young captives with interest, but 
not with a friendly one. It was that of a bold enemy 
who notes every mark of courage in his foe, even 
as he watches for every weakness. 

Fawnfoot had not troubled to give public credit to 
Ruth for little Thunder-Bearer’s recovery. The 
Hail-Storm thought he owed his son’s life to the 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 145 

medicine-man’s spells, and Fawnfoot knew he would 
prefer to think so. The squaw, alone in the village, 
showed friendship to the captives. The warriors 
were curious or indifferent; the squaws eager to see 
and question the strangers, but at heart cold against 
them, for many had lost sons and husbands in the 
attack on the wagon-train. Only the children were 
merry and willing to play with the white girls, but 
even among these Ruth and Kate felt sometimes 
repelled by the little savages’ cruelty and pitiless¬ 
ness toward each other and the animals in their way. 
As for Willow-Bough, she had not yet spoken one 
word to either Ruth or Kate and her notice consisted 
in brushing rudely against them, in slyly upsetting 
their bowls of food or water and in meeting their 
glances with cold flashes from her sombre eyes. 

The captives had won a certain tolerance which, 
among Indians, never fails to be accorded patience 
and courage. They had won Fawnfoot’s friend¬ 
ship, which meant that she would give them enough 
to eat and buffalo-robes to cover them, and exert in 
their favor whatever small influence she had with 
The Hail-Storm. Beyond this they had no hope of 
protection. They had not the least idea what fate 
awaited them, nor guessed at each sunrise what the 
day might hold in store. 

At the foot of the Black Hills the scouts of the 
moving village began to fall in with signs of others 
having passed before them, and to bring back news 


146 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


of villages camped ahead, on the plateau above the 
lower range of hills. It was to The Hail-Storm that 
many of the scouts reported, and Ruth and Kate, on 
first hearing them confer, were not only amazed but 
unbelieving. Indian powers of divination were as 
yet unknown to them, and when The Hail-Storm 
listened to the scouts and, following them, examined 
the ground that had told them all they knew, the 
captives looked on blankly, as at a foolish game 
played by grown-ups. 

“They can’t know all that,” Ruth whispered. 
“How can they?” 

It was noon of the third day’s march and the 
group of which the captives, Fawnfoot and her chil¬ 
dren formed a part had halted at The Hail-Storm’s 
command, while he surveyed the plot of ground be¬ 
fore them. All were breathless and panting with 
exertion. 

Half an hour before, leaving the plains, the vil¬ 
lage had entered a rocky gateway leading into a 
steep defile between precipitous cliffs. Rocks shot 
up on either hand for hundreds of feet. Black crags, 
sharp as needles, crowned the top. Up and up they 
climbed, until presently a plot of fresh grass showed 
among the cliffs, with bushes and shaggy pine-trees 
and the sound of falling water. A little stream 
poured into a basin of sand, and about it showed 
the footprints of deer, elk and Rocky Mountain 
sheep, and the broad foot of the grizzly bear with 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 147 

its terrible claws. It was here that The Hail-Storm 
had halted. 

Ruth and Kate already knew the footprints of 
these wanderers of the wilderness. The Indian chil¬ 
dren had in a few days taught them many of the 
woodman’s and plainsman’s secrets. They could see, 
too, that, close beside the spring, the burned grass 
showed where a camp-fire had been. But The Hail- 
Storm and the Indian beside him looked once around 
them, bent back the branch of a pine tree, sniffed 
the burned grass, gazed into the spring, and, nodding 
with a satisfied air, spoke their discoveries. 

“The rear-guard of a Dakota village has camped 
here within six hours,” said the scout. 

“The village is a day’s march ahead, and is mov¬ 
ing slowly, for the rear-guard sat here long to rest,” 
put in The Hail-Storm. “We shall overtake them 
by nightfall.” 

“There were twelve warriors here,” continued 
the scout. “One was ill, for he has torn off the 
leaves of the juniper to brew himself a drink.” 

“Stay!” cried The Hail-Storm. “Not so! That 
shrub’s bough was pulled off by another hand—more 
than a sunrise back. Look again, brother! Have 
there been no campers on this spot before our own 
brethren?” 

The scout cast his keen eyes about once more, 
nodded and stood a moment in thoughtful silence. 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


148 

“A white man,” he said at last. “No, two white 
men—mounted.” 

“And they were in haste, that pair,” added The 
Hail-Storm. “They did not care to linger in the 
hills’ shadow. Come, we have finished here.” 

Before the long hard day ended, there came in 
sight from beyond the shelter of a rocky corner the 
twelve Dakotas who formed the rear-guard of an¬ 
other village of the Sioux. They confirmed all that 
The Hail-Storm and his friend had foretold, but of 
the two white men they knew nothing beyond the 
fact that they had passed. 

At this proof of powers of guesswork bordering 
on the miraculous, the hearts of the captives sank 
still lower. Escape—rescue—what possible chance 
was there of these against a foe so wily that he could 
read every blade of grass and handful of sand on 
the fugitives’ trail? The captives seemed penned in 
by remorseless strength and cunning; the Sioux had 
gained enormously in their eyes. Ruth began to com¬ 
prehend Allardyce’s repeated warning to the colon¬ 
ists not to rate their savage enemies too cheaply. 

Ruth and Kate, by tacit consent, never admitted 
to each other the extent of their own despair. They 
talked evasively, dodging the real point at issue. 
So now, that evening, after a hasty encampment had 
been made on a grassy ledge along the mountain 
path, the captives, from their corner of Fawnfoot’s 
lodge, spoke whisperingly: 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 


149 

‘‘They guessed right, Ruth. They can read signs 
like print. But who could the white men be?” 

“I don’t know. If we could only see them! But 
what could they do against so many?” 

There was no hope in the captives’ hearts that 
night. They fell silent, sighed and clung to each 
other, and dropped wearily asleep. 

That day had shown them the savage’s wisdom 
and cunning. The next revealed his weakness. 
Fawnfoot awoke Ruth and Kate at sunrise with a 
troubled face and solemnly announced: 

“Bad news is among us with this rising sun, O 
little friends! The great and mighty chief Black- 
Snake, destroyer of armies-” 

“Oh, what has happened? Tell us!” begged 
Ruth, to whose impatient anxiety Fawnfoot’s long 
words were a torment. However, the squaw only 
recommenced in the same way: 

“The mighty chief Black-Snake, strong in wis¬ 
dom, tamer of lightnings, is beset by a devil of heavi¬ 
ness and gloom. Not until it leaves him can we set 
forth to join our brethren beyond the hills.” 

“What is the matter with him?” asked practical 
Kate. “He was well enough yesterday.” 

“The devil has not possession of his body. Prairie 
Hen,” Fawnfoot explained, “but of his spirit. He 
is weighed down with gloom. He sees ill signs and 
portents on every side. An evil fate lurks near him 



150 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


to-day, if he stir from his lodge. Even Fox-and- 
Lynx-Eye admits the truth of this.” 

The medicine-man’s failure to cure Thunder- 
Bearer had not damaged his credit in the squaw’s 
eyes. Sometimes one charm worked, she reflected, 
sometimes another. 

“But what can Fox-and-Lynx-Eye do if the chief 
is not ill?” asked Ruth. 

“Little,” Fawnfoot acknowledged. “Gloomy 
devils cannot commonly be chased away. We must 
wait patiently.” 

All that day the village lay encamped on the nar¬ 
row grassy ledges; men, women, children, ponies, 
dogs and sledges, uncomfortably crowded together. 
Hastily erected lodges yielded to the gusts of wind 
that burst about the rocky promontories and tore 
loose the buffalo-hide coverings. And all day Fawn- 
foot brought the same vague and depressing account 
of the chief’s spirits. He complained of nothing 
more than bad dreams and a heavy melancholy, yet 
this seemed to satisfy his followers, who waited with 
tolerance, if with some impatience, the hour of 
Black-Snake’s release from the evil influence. 

Ruth, her thoughts full of the two white travellers 
who had so recently passed over the mountain trail, 
was desperately eager to get on, though why, she 
could hardly have told herself. Where there were 
two white men, she dimly fancied, there might be 
more. At any rate, it was the only hope in sight. 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 151 

Both she and Kate were puzzled beyond belief by 
the childish moodiness of the chief, until their late 
respect for the Sioux began to sink again. Only 
two days before, the chief had received a glancing 
arrow in the shoulder, during a buffalo hunt. And, 
riding back to the village without complaint, he had 
plucked out the arrow before Ruth’s eyes, and had 
not even winced at the barbarous surgery with which 
Fox-and-Lynx-Eye hastened to add to the pain of 
his torn and bleeding wound. Yet here was this 
heroic chieftain cast down and terrified before phan¬ 
tom fears—bad dreams, a headache, and vague 
doubts for the future. Ruth questioned Fawnfoot a 
little, though the squaw’s answers seldom cleared 
things much. 

“Fawnfoot, tell me why your chief bears pain so 
bravely, and yet cannot bear his low spirits enough 
to conquer them and lead us on?” 

The squaw stopped shaping cakes of Indian meal 
to answer, for she could never manage to work and 
talk at once. After a moment’s thought she spoke, 
her clear voice rising amid the murmur of pine-trees 
on the mountain-side, the scream of eagles over the 
rocky heights, and the noise of the village perched 
on the ledges around them. 

“There is no pain our chief cannot endure—even 
torture. And our braves, as well. To that they are 
trained; sooner would they die than give one groan, 
than utter one complaint before fire, thirst, wounds 



152 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


or hunger. But Black-Snake-” here Fawnfoot 

paused, thought deeply, and at last with some effort 
slowly continued, “cannot now see his enemy, or 
the cause of his pain visibly before him. When the 
boldest warrior is attacked by sickness or evil spirits, 
or any unknown ill, he falls prostrate. Who can 
he resist or defy? He is helpless.” 

“He can just go on and forget it all,” Ruth sug¬ 
gested. “What does it matter about his dreams, if 
he’s not really ill?” 

But at this Fawnfoot looked blankly uncompre¬ 
hending and found no more to answer than: “He 
dare not go against the portents; he cannot shake off 
the evil spirit. That were to make bad worse.” 
Then suddenly remembering her neglected work, 
she sprang to her feet and caught a skin bucket in 
her hand. “Come with me. Sunlight!” she com¬ 
manded. “Come to the spring an^ fetch back an¬ 
other skin of water. My meal is dry.” 

Ruth pulled on the moccasins Fawnfoot had given 
her. “Are there rattlesnakes?” she asked, follow¬ 
ing the squaw along a rocky path through a bit of 
pine woods near the edge of the cliff. 

Fawnfoot laughed. “Rattlesnakes do not climb 
so high,” she said. “We have left them all be¬ 
hind. Grizzly bears there are, but not near our 
camp.” With the Indian belief in reasoning power 
and understanding in animals, she added: “They 



WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 153 

have heard our braves saying that death would find 
them out if they lingered.” 

Beyond the grove of pines, from a jutting cleft 
rock, a noisy stream poured out. Fawnfoot and 
Ruth filled their skin buckets with the Icy, sparkling 
water and turned to go back when the squaw, her 
bright eyes lingering on the ground, exclaimed: 

“Look, Sunlight! Riders have been here! White 
men! Horses with Iron feet!” 

“When? Where?” cried Ruth, flinging down her 
burden, oblivious of the spilled water as her eager 
eyes followed Fawnfoot’s pointing finger. 

All she could see was a faint track of hoofs, almost 
obliterated. 

“Oh, Fawnfoot, how long ago were they here? 
How many were there?” she panted. 

“Not long ago. How many, I don’t know—two 
or three. Come, fetch more water and make haste,” 
said the squaw, losing interest. “The sun is almost 
overhead.” 

Slowly Ruth obeyed and followed with lagging 
steps In her companion’s wake. How she longed to 
linger near the stream, to search for any signs legible 
to her Ignorant eyes which might tell her more 
about the white travellers! But Fawnfoot hurried 
on, and her light step was so quick that Ruth was 
forced to her best pace to keep close beside. 

Through the crowded confusion of the camp, 
snatches of talk reached her ears and all of It con- 


154 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


firmed what she and Kate had for the last few days 
become but too sure of: the village was preparing 
for war. It was impossible not to be aware of this, 
amid the general boastful talk of past exploits, the 
showing of weapons, the bursts of enthusiasm, the 
contemptuous or resentful glances directed toward 
the white captives. Black-Snake’s moodiness was 
enough respected to delay the march which would 
unite the village with their brethren, but it was not 
enough to quell the impatience of the young braves 
whose warlike and ferocious spirit was mounting 
every hour. War was the breath of these Dakotas’ 
nostrils. Its fierce spirit called forth their greatest 
energies, awakened their most eager longings. It 
developed, along with bloodthirsty cruelty, the heroic 
virtues of the race. 

To the captives, however, it meant the prospect of 
terror added to their misery, and they were infinitely 
grateful when, at sunrise of the following day, 
Black-Snake recovered from his gloom enough to 
lead the village on. Along the hard trail the war¬ 
riors had more outlet for their ardor and, during the 
march at least, forgot something of their threats 
and boasting in combating the real perils of the 
way. 

The trail led through defiles so deep that only a 
ribbon of blue sky showed between the edges of 
opposing cliffs. From dark, wooded caves the gleam¬ 
ing eyes of wild-cats and mountain lions occasionally 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 155 

peered out, and shadowy forms slunk from sight 
before the approach of the watchful savages. At 
last the village issued from the mountain onto a wild 
and broken plain, fringed by hills, and obstructed 
by woods and rocky promontories. Seen beyond 
these barriers, the prairie lay like a great turbulent 
ocean suddenly grown still, pale green in the golden 
autumn sunlight. 

Near the mountain’s foot, on a piece of level, 
open ground, a great village lay encamped, of which 
the scouts, long ago aware of the advancing column, 
had pushed into the defiles and met with the van¬ 
guard of Black-Snake’s-village before it reached the 
plain. 

Out from the village which was already encamped 
streamed a noisy, welcoming crowed. It greeted the 
newcomers with an enthusiasm which, with the war¬ 
riors, came chiefly from the prospect of new allies 
» on the war-path, and with the women from a kind 
of contagion of excitement. 

The young braves danced and shouted, brandish¬ 
ing feathered lances, bows, axes and sometimes 
rifles. The older men greeted one another with 
majestic calm, exchanged pipes, and began inter¬ 
minable talks, pointed with grave, graceful gestures. 
Out of the bedlam of shouting men, screaming 
children, neighing ponies and whining dogs arose a 
scene which, common as it had grown to their eyes, 


156 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

never failed to inspire the white captives with indig¬ 
nation. 

The older Indian hraves reclined at their ease on 
the grass or beneath the shade of the pines and wil¬ 
low-leaved poplars which overhung the hillside. The 
young men strolled about, ran races on their fleet 
ponies, compared and examined weapons, and 
amused themselves in any way they fancied. Mean¬ 
while the squaws, already tired by the long, hard 
march, set about erecting the lodges, driving in the 
poles, laying the heavy buflalo-hides over them, un¬ 
packing the lodge furniture of robes and pottery 
from the sledges, building the fires, and in general 
doing all the hard work of the village. 

The pioneers’ daughters were used enough to 
bearing their share of the burden of a simple, labori¬ 
ous life. But that men should willingly sit down 
and watch women wearily toiling at the hardest tasks 
without thought of lending even a helping hand 
seemed beyond belief. This, more than any other 
one custom of the savages, degraded them in the cap¬ 
tives’ eyes. 

At last toward sundown the lodges were all built, 
the noisy, straggling population sheltered, the ponies 
hobbled and the evening fires alight. Chief Black- 
Snake and his Ogillallah neighbor. Chief Big-Horn, 
had exchanged visits of ceremony, had smoked the 
same pipe and had uttered the same round of boast¬ 
ful phrases. Fawnfoot, who was far from letting 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 157 

the captives eat their food in idleness, especially as 
they were more willing than her own daughter, set 
Kate to work mending the fire in the lodge and sent 
Ruth out for water to the stream cascading down the 
cliff behind the village. 

It was sunset and the western sky was glowing 
rose, green and violet above the far-off mountain 
peaks beyond the vast broken plain. Eastward rose 
the Black Hills—so near the villages that nothing 
of them was to be seen but the first great cliff with its 
dark green foliage, towering black rock and pouring 
stream. Wherever Ruth’s eyes wandered there 
stretched a sublime and boundless waste, a wilder¬ 
ness of mountains, pine forest and plain, over which 
hung the spirit of loneliness and silence. She caught 
her breath and hurried on, attracted even by the 
distant screams and shouts of the Indian girls gath¬ 
ered near the cascading water. But the longing for 
human society was not proof for more than an instant 
against a strong distaste for the company of those 
careless, light-hearted little savages. She thought 
she would rather be alone in this solitude than seek 
the Dakota girls’ company. She climbed the rough 
shelving cliff-side to the first pine-covered ledge and 
reached the stream a dozen yards above its mouth. 
The pines sighed over her head. The noise of the 
villages below seemed far away. Only the water 
chattered and bickered at her side as she sank down 
on the rocky earth beside the stream and sat a mo- 



158 FIGHTING WESTWARD 

ment idle, the rawhide handle of the skin bucket in 
her hands. 

Suddenly a light footstep and the crack of a brittle 
twig roused her. Raising her head and seeing a 
slim figure among the pine-trees, she thought won- 
deringly that this was the first time she had ever 
heard an Indian’s approach. The young brave com¬ 
ing toward her now out of the shadows walked 
quietly enough, his moccasined feet on the pine-needle 

carpeted earth, but his steps had not quite the usual 

■« 

cat-like noiselessness of the Indian. Ruth bent over 
the stream and filled her bucket, casting no second 
glance at the other, who, she knew, would ignore 
her presence with all the pride of the Dakota war¬ 
rior. 

But as she withdrew her full bucket and rose to 
her feet, the young man appoached still nearer, and 
by the lingering gleams of daylight among the pines 
Ruth saw his slender, boyish frame, his worn deer¬ 
skin tunic and trousers, his dark smooth skin. And 
all at once her heart leaped in her throat with be¬ 
wildered amazement. The young Dakota’s gar¬ 
ments, though of shabby deer’s hide, had neverthe¬ 
less an oddly different and formal cut. His skin was 
dark, but tanned by die prairie sun rather than a cop¬ 
pery-red. His hair, instead of being long and black 
and decked with eagle-feathers, was brown and short, 
and his eyes were not dark at all, but grey. And at 
this point in Ruth’s thoughts, as she still stared mo- 


WHITE MEN’S DAUGHTERS 159 

tionless at the stranger, he came clear out into the 
fading daylight and, catching the girl’s shoulders 
with his lean brown hands, cried softly in a voice 
that broke and trembled with feeling: 

“Ruth! Little friend Ruth! Don’t you know 
Dick Ernshaw?” 


CHAPTER XI 


HARD TO CHOOSE 

I T WAS after sunrise next morning, and already 
the villages were astir, when Ruth stole away 
from Fawnfoot’s lodge. Treading past crowds of 
children, chattering squaws, fighting dogs and braves 
gathered together in groups to discuss the day’s hunt 
or the morrow’s campaign against the whites, she 
reached the sloping cliff-side and climbed to the same 
lonely spot where Dick had found her the evening 
before. It was more cheerful there now; the pines 
murmured pleasantly in the light morning breeze; 
sunshine flecked through their boughs onto the earth, 
and even the stream flowed with a gayer sound as 
the sun gleamed on its dancing surface. Ruth had 
hardly time to catch her breath after her climb when 
Dick came gliding through the trees and beckoned 
her farther back into the woodland. 

“Don’t let them see us together yet,” he said, 
looking toward the villages encamped below. “No 
need to remind them that we know each other.” 
Ruth nodded, so filled with longing to say all 

i6o 


HARD TO CHOOSE 


i6i 


that lay heavy on her heart that in the very con¬ 
fusion of her thoughts she was silent. On the eve¬ 
ning before, she and Dick had exchanged only 
hurried words of amazement, explanation, lament. 
But now a few precious moments were at her dis¬ 
posal. Kind Kate had promised to satisfy all 
Fawnfoot’s demands in her absence and Ruth need 
wait no longer to pour out to her friend the story 
of her own and Kate’s capture; to learn his share 
of hardships, to hear all he had to say of the dreary 
prospect ahead. 

At first in the very relief of Dick’s courageous 
presence, at his apparent freedom of movement and 
undaunted calm, Ruth, in sudden need of sympathy 
after the hard days of self-restraint, forgot her own 
resolves and shed some childish tears on Dick’s 
friendly shoulder, indulging in the luxury of feeling 
wretchedly sorry for herself. 

But she could spare only a moment for this weak¬ 
ness. There was too much to be said on both sides; 
too many questions waiting to be asked. Ruth 
brushed the tears from her eyes, and in her regained 
delight at having found Dick safe and well, in the 
comfort of his presence there in the wilderness, she 
smiled, and for an instant her tanned and sunburned 
face, grown thinner in these weeks of captivity, 
looked as happy and hopeful as in the days of free¬ 
dom. She and Dick sat down on a fallen pine trunk. 


i 62 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


The babbling stream drowned their voices, yet they 
spoke cautiously. 

“Where is the wagon-train now, Dick? Can you 
guess?” 

“I’ve tried hard enough! It must be well on 
toward Fort Laramie. Your father would be sure 
to lead the wagons safely there before he branched 
off on any hunt. And where could he hunt for you, 
at any rate? With what hope of success? No! the 
break for freedom has got to come from our end.” 

“From us, Dick! Oh, Dick—we can’t!” For a 
moment Ruth hung her head and her voice lost its 
hopefulness. “How could we? They’d catch up 
with us in an hour! In these mountains—why”— 
here Ruth remembered the white men whose trail 
The Hail-Storm had traced so easily on the moun¬ 
tain path—“Indians can follow anywhere, and see 
your very footprints and the place you stopped.” 

“I know. But in spite of that we’ve got to try, 
and not after a while, either. Right away!” 

Ruth stared at Dick, whose face had grown set 
and resolute, while his eyes were filled with a quiet 
light of courage. He glanced keenly about the little 
pine wood, then went on quickly: 

“We’ve got to make our start before the Sioux 
go on the warpath, and village is joining with village 
every day. Haven’t you seen and heard the prepa¬ 
rations—the enthusiasm? Even enemy tribes are 
making peace with the Sioux to join in the attack 



HARD TO CHOOSE 163 

against the colonists who have dared to cross the 
plains to set up homes beyond them. The savages 
see their last stronghold threatened. From the 
Rocky Mountains the Crow nation have swallowed 
their hatred for the Sioux and joined the common 
cause. I’ve watched it all for many days now, and 
rejoiced that confusion and mismanagement and 
jealousy among the chiefs have delayed things so 
far. And I have hopes it will delay the attack until 
after our train is well within sight of Laramie. 
Your father and Allardyce are not deaf and blind 
to all this seething rebellion. It’s ourselves, our 
lives, Ruth, I’m thinking of now. Before the storm 
breaks, we’ve got to get away.” 

Ruth was silent, trembling. Dick continued: 

“Up to now, until the moment when I saw you 

and Kate captives in Black-Snake’s village- Oh, 

Ruth, I had a hard time not running up to you then 
and there, instead of standing indifferently by 1 Until 
that moment I was thinking only of myself. They 
don’t watch me overmuch. Time and again I could 
have got away at night. I’d have stolen Mandy 
back from among the Indian ponies, for the con¬ 
trary beast obeys me now—to spite the savages, I 
think—but it would have been no use to start off 
across country I knew nothing of, to perish in the 
wilderness. But now I know where we are. The 
villages have moved north into these hills. I’ve 
watched and listened and asked and guessed until 



164 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


I’m fairly sure. I could cut across southwest to 

Fort Laramie- Oh, I know it’s far; I know 

it’s hard, but, little Ruth, it’s got to be done! We 
didn’t start for Oregon to die at the hands of the 
savages.” 

Fear and foreboding made Ruth’s head whirl and 
her heart pound against her ribs, but Dick’s brave 
words were not spoken in vain. She clenched her 
hands, pressed her moccasined feet hard against the 
pine-needle covered ground and fought down her 
cowardice until she could answer steadily: 

“Yes, we’ve got to try, Dick. But you’d have a 
better chance alone.” 

“Perhaps. But you’re strong and full of pluck, 
and back in the summertime, when you and Dave 
were kind to me, I promised myself that some day 
I’d do you a good turn—we’ll risk it together.” 

At mention of Dave, Ruth’s heart gave a quick 
pang. But there was no time for explanations then. 
She said only: “And Kate, Dick. Kate, too.” 

There was a second’s pause, then Dick said: “No, 
only you.” 

Ruth started to her feet, her eyes ablaze. “What, 
Dick? You think I’d leave Kate here alone? Kate 
whom I led away from the wagon-train, begging her 
to help me find Dave-” 

“Find Dave?” Dick echoed. 

“Yes. Oh, Dick, Dave ran off with the man from 
California! We were going out to find them when 





HARD TO CHOOSE 


165 


we were captured. It was the night of the attack. 
We lost five men. But never mind Dave now. He’s 
gone and I can’t bring him back!” Ruth’s voice 
broke here and she caught her breath. But recall¬ 
ing her wandering thoughts, she said again with 
eager indignation: “You’re not asking me to leave 
Kate behind?” 

Dick caught hold of her hand and pulled her down 
again beside him. His face was stern and troubled 
and his voice faltered a second before he forced it 
back to steadiness. 

“Listen, Ruth,” he said. “When we stand be¬ 
tween life and death there’s little choice. Whatever 
road is open—that’s the only road to take. Do you 
suppose I want to leave Allardyce’s poor little girl 
alone with the Dakotas? But here’s the hard truth. 
If I go off alone I have a fair chance of escape. 
With you along it’s slimmer. With Kate too, there 
would be no chance left. We would all lose our 
lives—either in the wilderness or at the hands of the 
savages, who don’t forgive captives for leading them 
a chase—not in their present blood-thirsty mood. If 
you and I get clear, our people can lead a war-party 
against the Dakotas; we know their camps now, 
and their strength. To surround Black-Snake’s vil¬ 
lage and rescue Kate would be no great feat. Vol¬ 
unteers, they say, are plenty among the trappers 
about Laramie, as well as friendly tribesmen.” 

Ruth drew her arm away from Dick’s detaining 



i66 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


hand and met the anxious, pleading gaze of his eyes 
with a look as anxious and troubled, but no less re¬ 
solved. “I shan’t leave Kate, Dick. You can go 
alone and send the rescuers back. And I’ll have to 

N 

leave you now or Fawnfoot will begin to wonder. 
Don’t think I’m not grateful, dear Dick! Only, I 
couldn’t leave Kate. I couldn’t!” 

At these last words Ruth’s throat began to choke 
her and tears to overflow her eyes, and to hide her 
sudden misery and despair from Dick she sprang up 
and ran from him alongside the pouring stream 
and down the pebbly cliff. And as she ran her beat¬ 
ing heart thumped in her own ears and the blood 
burned in her cheeks as she fought with herself. 
And over and over again she repeated: “Go quickly! 
Don’t look back at him! You might say you would 
go!” 

Back in the lodge, Ruth found Kate having a hard 
time to satisfy Fawnfoot’s numerous demands. The 
restless state of mind which had possession of The 
Hail-Storm and his fellow-braves seemed reflected 
in the squaw’s irritable mood. Her gratitude toward 
the white captives for their tendance of Thunder- 
Bearer did not prevent her from showing them her 
bad temper, or from becoming at times a hard task- 
mistress. She rated Ruth for her absence, and the 
tw'o girls, in the midst of pounding corn, heating 
water and fetching fuel, found little chance at first 
to exchange a word. At last Fawnfoot grew more 


HARD TO CHOOSE 


167 


amiable, smiled at the baby who was crawling around 
in everybody’s way, and Kate, no longer able to re¬ 
strain her impatience, whispered hurriedly: 

“Had he any news, Ruth? What did he say?” 

Ruth did not know how to answer. She said 
stammeringly: “Not much news, Kate. He is well. 
He was surprised when he saw us. Of course he 
had no idea we had been taken. He thinks the train 
must be near Fort Laramie by now. That’s far 
southwest of us, for we have moved north into the 
Dakota country.” 

“That’s all he told you? He has no hope—no 
plan?” Kate faltered. But at once she added: 
“How could he have—any more than we? There’s 
nothing for it but to be patient.” 

“Dick thinks the villages are uniting for another 
attack,” said Ruth. “He thinks it won’t be long 
before they go on the war-path against our wagon- 
train and those that are coming after.” Her heart 
was like lead with the misery of repeating this dis¬ 
mal news, and with having to hide the chief part of 
what Dick had said from Kate, together with her 
own hard-won resolve. At that moment there 
seemed not a glimmer of light out of the darkness. 
Her hands grasped the stone pestle and crushed the 
hard corn in the mortar at her feet, but she felt 
numb with wretchedness, and even her voice sounded 
faint and ghost-like as she told over all she dared 
repeat of Dick’s disheartening words. But Kate 


i68 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


found her depression natural and suspected nothing. 
She was sad enough herself, but, not having ex¬ 
pected much from Ruth’s and Dick’s interview— 
not having Ruth’s buoyant spirits to hope always 
for the most from fortune—she was not greatly 
disappointed, nor much surprised that Dick should 
prove helpless as themselves. 

That afternoon Ruth could not help stealing away 
again to the pine wood, though with what motive 
she could not have told herself. She did not expect 
to see Dick again there, nor would it have helped 
matters if she had. But from whatever reason, the 
peaceful, relaxed hour of sunset found her climbing 
the clihside and reentering the wood. She shivered 
a little in her worn cotton dress, for a fresh autumn 
breeze stirred the pines, and beneath them the air 
was cold and fragrant. 

Dick was nowhere in sight. Ruth walked on into 
the wood, forgetful of her surroundings, indulging 
her mood of hopeless melancholy. If across her 
thoughts came now and then a thrill of self-pity; 
of sympathy for herself and of pride in her gener¬ 
ous self-sacrifice, she was too healthy-minded to 
dwell upon it. With sudden clear-sightedness she 
told herself bluntly: “There wasn’t any choice about 
it. I couldn’t leave Kate. I just couldn’t.” 

There was no sound of footfalls about her; not 
the crack of a twig nor the crunch of a pebble; onlv 
the swaying pine-boughs, the calling birds, and now 



HARD TO CHOOSE 


169 

and then a chattering squirrel leaping overhead. 
What was then Ruth’s surprise, on casually glancing 
behind her, to catch sight of Willow-Bough silently 
following on her trail. 

The Indian girl was stealing noiselessly as a 
shadow between the tree-trunks; her dark eyes alight 
with malicious curiosity, a mocking smile upon her 
lips. Ruth gave no sign of having seen her, but 
continued on her way, anger rising in her heart 
against the unfriendly spy, while curiosity urged her 
to go deeper into the wood to see how far Willow- 
Bough would follow. 

The ground sloped upward, rugged and rocky. 
The trees grew thicker on the hillside. Over at the 
left appeared the jagged outline of a cave, made 
of huge boulders through the cracks of which sprang 
juniper bushes. The level sun shone along the aisles 
of the wood now with a golden glow. Ruth fancied 
she heard a distant sound—a kind of heavy, shuffl¬ 
ing step. She turned again, but could catch no sign 
of her follower. Willow-Bough had disappeared. 

Ruth was about to turn back herself, weary of 
her own sad thoughts, her anger against the Indian 
girl spent, too, when from in front of her and on her 
right came the sound of voices speaking the Dakota 
tongue. She ran to one side of the cave and crouched 
behind a jutting rocky fragment. Almost at once 
there appeared from among the trees Dick Ernshaw 
and a young Indian. 



170 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Dick carried his rifle under his arm. The young 
Dakota brave had a quiver of arrows at his belt and 
a bow in his hand. His dark face and sparkling 
eyes were turned toward Dick while he spoke rapidly, 
pointing his talk with easy, unconscious gestures, 
more than once touching Dick’s arm or shoulder with 
a friendly hand. As the pair approached nearer to 
where Ruth was hidden, two red squirrels began a 
violent quarrel in the trees overhead. They chat¬ 
tered and screamed, and chased each other nimbly 
from branch to branch, while Dick’s companion, with 
that curious interest in animals and belief in their 
reasoning power which marks the Indian, threw down 
his bow and ran after the squirrels as nimbly as 
they, following every stage of the quarrel. 

Ruth had already noticed the rare changes of 
mood when the young braves cast off their masks 
of dignity, and, in friendly company, grew as gay, 
light-hearted and whimsical as any child. She won¬ 
dered the less now to see the Dakota race under the 
trees with agile bounds, his eyes laughing up at the 
noisy squirrels, his lips shouting words of fellow¬ 
ship, sympathy or defiance. 

“Come, now, little brother, you have the worst 
of it! Give in and run away! Your rival is of 
stouter heart! Look, Eagle-Eye, this one is a 
fighter!” 

Suddenly the careless smile froze on the young 
Indian’s lips. He stopped short, quivering, his ears 


HARD TO CHOOSE 


171 

strained, his keen eyes searching the entrance to the 
cave. 

“My bow, Eagle-Eye! It is beside you!” In 
spite of his evident excitement he spoke softly, mov¬ 
ing with light and infinitely cautious steps toward 
where he had let fall his weapon, his hand drawing 
an arrow from his belt. 

Ruth stood motionless, staring. She could not 
see the entrance to the cave, nor hear the sound 
which had caught the Indian’s sharp ear. But she 
saw Dick, ignoring the other’s demand, fix his eyes 
upon the cave with a tense look of horror, then raise 
his rifle to his shoulder and fire. 

It all happened in an instant. Ruth shut her eyes 
and crouched as Dick discharged his rifle. Her eyes 
still shut, she felt the thud of a heavy body falling to 
the earth. In her consternation she ran a few steps 
forward and saw a huge grizzly bear lying on its 
back almost at the young Dakota’s feet, its terrible 
claws still feebly moving. 

Dick’s hands trembled as he clutched his rifle, his 
eyes on the great beast dying on the ground, but in a 
moment he looked up at the Indian and spoke 
steadily. 

“I give The Rabbit the skin of my first bear to 
adorn his lodge.” 

The Indian raised his eyes too, folded his arms, 
and said with calm simplicity: “The bear sprang 
as you fired. I owe you my life, brother.” Then 


172 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


all at once catching sight of Ruth, who had forgot¬ 
ten to hide herself during this scene, he exclaimed in 
amazement: “Who is that? Look, Eagle-Eye! A 
Meneaska maid!” 

Dick turned and saw Ruth standing by the cave, 
her eyes wide with horror, her cheeks pale beneath 
the tan. For an instant she could not collect her 
wits enough to move from the place, but when she 
did, fearful of getting Dick into new difficulties, she 
turned without a sign of recognition and ran back 
toward the village. 

When she was out of sight, Dick looked at The 
Rabbit again and slowly answered, thinking hard as 
he spoke, a scheme dimly evolving itself in his 
troubled brain: 

“Yes, Ogillallah brother, she is a captive in Chief 
Black-Snake’s village.” 

“How was she taken?” asked the young Indian 
curiously. “Was it during the attack on the white 
nation moving west?” 

“No. The Sioux took no captives there. But 
this little squaw could not find her brother after the 
fight, so she and a companion went out onto the 
prairie to look for him. There they were overtaken 
by The Hail-Storm and another brave and made 
captives.” 

“Strange squaws!” exclaimed The Rabbit. “Why 
cannot they remain safely hidden at the hour of 
battle in the lodges of their warriors? Does the 


HARD TO CHOOSE 


173 


maiden have no cause to lament her captivity that 
she wanders so boldly through the woodland? Was 
it because she knows Eagle-Eye that she came here?” 

As The Rabbit put this last question with a 
piercing glance of his bright dark eyes, Dick sud¬ 
denly made up his mind. Before replying, with 
that air of gravity and deliberation which always 
wins an Indian’s attention, he motioned his friend 
to' a rocky seat some steps beyond the dead body 
of the bear. 

“The Rabbit has asked me a question,” he said 
with dignity. “Will he sit beside me and hear my 
answer?” 

The Rabbit gravely nodded and, taking his seat 
beside Dick on the flat, mossy rock, folded his arms, 
turned to meet Dick’s gaze and, motionless, awaited 
him. 

The sun had now set, and only a pale radiance 
lingered in the woodland. Birds were nearly hushed, 
and bats began squeaking through the pine boughs. 
Dick, in his anxiety, would like to have spoken 
eagerly and fast, but he controlled himself and, col¬ 
lecting the best he knew of the Dakota tongue, be¬ 
gan with slow earnestness: 

“My Ogillallah brother must hear me with pa¬ 
tience. Some things which I will utter may surprise 
him. Will he be generous?” 

The Rabbit nodded in silence, his dark eyes still 
shining on Dick’s face. Dick’s throat was dry in 


174 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


spite of his effort to be calm; his heart beat with 
the knowledge that he was risking his one chance; 
that with The Rabbit’s refusal all hope would be 
ended. Nevertheless he continued: 

“Eagle-Eye does not now address The Rabbit as 
one who, by the aid of whatever lucky spirit, has 
been able to strike down the bear which lies before 
us, and so, as The Rabbit generously says, save the 
Dakota warrior’s life. No; Eagle-Eye has no 
thought of any but the claims of loyal friendship 
when he comes to The Rabbit asking a favor. Let 
the Ogillallah brave grant or refuse it as his heart 
directs!” 

Here The Rabbit again silently nodded. Dick 
fingered his rifle, searched about in his mind for the 
Dakota words he wanted, and resumed: 

“The Rabbit has asked me if the little white 
maiden came into the wood to meet me. I answer: 
Yes; that Meneaska squaw, called in Black-Snake’s 
village. Sunlight, is the daughter of my friend and 
foster father. To me she, a captive, looks for pro¬ 
tection.” 

Here The Rabbit stirred in a movement of quick 
surprise, and broke his silence to inquire: “You 
knew, then, that she was captive?” 

“Not until the villages united, here beyond the 
hills. For that reason she came here to-day, search¬ 
ing for me, to ask my brotherly counsel; to seek my 
comfort and guidance. 


HARD TO CHOOSE 


175 


“O friend, willingly would I have remained all 
my days with the Ogillallahs, my brothers, were it 
not for this maiden’s unhappy fate! Willingly, but 
for her sighs and tears, would I stay by The Rab¬ 
bit’s side and learn to share his woodland wisdom 
and his warlike glory I” 

A kind of shame moved Dick’s voice as he spoke 
these falsehoods, yet they were not so utterly false, 
he thought, or he could not have so well found words 
to frame them. He did generously return The Rab¬ 
bit’s affection. His generous nature could not but 
warm toward the young Indian who had shown him 
such devoted and such disinterested friendship. 

In the fading light he leaned toward the Dakota 
and went on with increasing earnestness. 

“It is for Sunlight’s sake, and that of her com¬ 
panion—the child of her father’s friend—that I 
beg of you this favor. Save the lives of these help¬ 
less children bound to me by ties of race and affec¬ 
tion. Help me to lead them back to freedom.” 
Without pausing for The Rabbit’s answer, Dick con¬ 
tinued: “I cannot ask such a boon of Chief Big-Horn. 
He is determined to keep me captive, and even to 
wreak his cruel vengeance upon me, in spite of The 
Rabbit’s protection; perhaps even to show, in his 
jealous rage, how little he fears his young rival.” 

The Rabbit’s eyes flashed into his; the Dakota 
unfolded trembling arms, on which the sinews stood 
out from the smooth dark skin. In his anger he rose 




176 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


from his seat upon the rock. Even the feathers in 
his hair seemed to bristle up with the indignation that 
shook him. Not in hours of thought could Dick 
have hit upon a better argument. For two or three 
minutes The Rabbit stood there, silent, his looks 
bent on the ground, while Dick waited with throb¬ 
bing pulses; then the Indian raised his eyes, and 
even in the woodland twilight Dick could see that 
their look was calm, steady and resolved. 

Perhaps the young Indian had been moved by his 
friend’s entreaty, for to an Indian the ties of blood 
and kinship are well understood. Perhaps the 
beauty of the place and hour, the peaceful forest 
stillness had somehow power to affect him. Or was 
it gratitude for Dick’s recent great service—or only 
that the bold young Tennessean struck the Dakota 
in a generous mood? At any rate, when at last The 
Rabbit spoke, it was to say in warm, ringing tones: 
“Eagle-Eye, my friendship is no empty word! You 
have The Rabbit’s promise. I will help you and 
the little white squaws to freedom.” 



CHAPTER XII 


THE RABBIT^S PROMISE 

F or a moment Dick was too stunned with relief 
to find any answer. Then, as slowly the blood 
flowed back into his heart, he saw things more 
plainly; felt, even in the midst of his joy and tri¬ 
umph, what immense obstacles were still in his way. 
The Rabbit, powerful and determined as he was, 
had many enemies. Most of the village, for that 
matter, would side with the chief, especially when it 
came to clemency toward the white captives. Be¬ 
sides, even once safely beyond the encampment, the 
vast, desolate, peril-filled wilderness stretched be¬ 
tween them and Laramie. Yet Dick put these 
thoughts resolutely from his mind and said to The 
Rabbit with heartfelt gratitude: 

“I thank my Ogillallah brother! May his gen¬ 
erous act be rewarded! May I live to sing his 
praises! He is magnanimous in peace and friend¬ 
ship as he is terrible in war!” 

This time Dick meant what he said, in spite of the 
poetic Dakota mode of speech, and The Rabbit, ac- 

177 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


178 

cepting his proffered hand, grunted in acknowledge¬ 
ment and, turning, led the way toward the village, 
for night was falling. 

At the little clearing beside the stream, within 
sight of the villages below, The Rabbit paused and 
stood thoughtful a moment before he spoke again. 
A fire had been lighted outside one of the lodges 
and against its brightness the young Indian’s figure 
was sharply defined, a form of matchless symmetry— 
fine muscular limbs, erect carriage, flowing locks 
crowned with eagle-feathers. Dick thought with a 
quick thrill of admiration that he had never seen 
any statue so full of grace, nor any sight more pic¬ 
turesque that the tall young savage standing there 
in the lingering northern twilight; the pine-trees 
about him and the fire at his back. The Rabbit 
spoke this time with shrewd foreboding. 

“Eagle-Eye, the white nation is now many days 
southwest of us. The way between is hard and 
weary travel for a white man. Do you hope to 
make two little white squaws cover it? There is 
game in plenty, but it must be caught, and you, O 
Brother, are no trapper, and not yet half a hunter, 
for all that to-day you saved my life. There are 
wild beasts in these mountains, and tempests—for 
winter comes on apace. There are hostile tribes, 
too, with whom The Rabbit’s name will weigh little. 
But who is my brother Eagle-Eye to be afraid? I 
know these perils cannot daunt him. When a war- 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


179 


rior has made us his mind he is immovable to per¬ 
suasion. Shall to-morrow’s sun see your plans take 
shape? Shall to-morrow’s moonrise see our depar¬ 
ture?” 

“Will The Rabbit bear us company?” asked Dick, 
with sudden hope. “Can he be spared from the 
council?” 

“Not more than for the space of a hunting-trip— 
two suns at most must my absence endure,” replied 
the Dakota. “But for that long I will be your guide. 
Without me, O blind and paleface-nurtured brother, 
you would fall into the first trap set by the pur¬ 
suers I” 

This was too true to be resented. Dick said only: 
“But if you disappear together with us, will not the 
others guess the truth?” 

The Rabbit moved his bare shoulders in a con¬ 
temptuous gesture. 

“And if they did, would I fear them? Did I fear 
to befriend Eagle-Eye in the face of their resent¬ 
ment? Cannot I and my brethren hold our own in 
the village? If I hide my real purpose now, it is 
less for my own sake than my white brother’s. If 
the Dakotas think The Rabbit aided your escape, 
they will follow on fleeter ponies, with keener eyes, 
prepared to match Ogillallah cunning, instead of a 
Meneaska’s straight, blundering flight. Therefore, 
I will leave the village at another place and hour 


i8o FIGHTING WESTWARD 

from you, go up the mountain trail and there await 
you. Come, it is night.” 

A dozen questions chased through Dick’s mind, 
of which one came to his lips as they neared the 
lodges. 

“We must have another horse to make any speed. 
I can catch my own at nightfall. Will The Rabbit 
lend me a second?” 

“One of my brethren shall furnish you a fleet 
pony. Keep it in exchange for the bear’s skin. And 
now, silence! You shall hear more of this at dawn, 
when I have told all to Red-Deer.” 

“I will see Sunlight as soon as possible,” Dick 
murmured. “I think she and her friend can be 
ready to-morrow night.” 

“They must be ready, Eagle-Eye,” The Rabbit 
answered. “Shall squaws’ delays balk our plans? 
That would be folly! And your generosity in their 
behalf is close to that already.” 

To this Dick made no comment. Torn between 
hope and fear; between relief at help gained, and 
dread of the long perilous journey on which he must 
embark with his all but helpless companions, he 
joined The Rabbit’s brethren in the lighted lodge 
and ate the evening meal almost in silence. 

So restless and troubled were Dick’s thoughts that, 
long after his three companions in the lodge were 
asleep, he had not yet closed his eyes. He lay still, 
staring at the dying fire, and up to where the stars 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE i8i 

twinkled through the teepee’s open top, and he told 
himself that, if all went well, this was the last night 
he would spend in the Dakota village; the last night 
of his captivity. 

His greatest impatience was to see Ruth and pre¬ 
pare her for the flight. Now he had The Rabbit’s 
promise of aid for herself and for Kate, he felt 
sure Ruth would offer no further objection, but 
would be eager and willing as himself to risk every¬ 
thing for freedom. He remembered her flash of 
indignation on the day before, and her obstinate 
refusal. His heart warmed to her loyalty and cour¬ 
age, but he did not blame himself for having re¬ 
fused to add Kate’s company to his other burdens. 
It was doubtful if he and Ruth alone would ever 
have made good their escape. Even now, with The 
Rabbit’s powerful help, doubt and foreboding 
pressed thick upon him. Obstacles which he had 
forgotten or tried to ignore were forced on his 
knowledge by The Rabbit’s clear-seeing vision. But 
where no choice offers there cannot be much hesita¬ 
tion. Dick dreaded what lay ahead, but he dreaded 
more to linger with the girl captives while the vil¬ 
lages armed for war against the whites, and when 
each day saw the savages roused to a higher pitch 
of ferocious and fanatic ardor. Escape was their 
only chance of life—of this Dick felt convinced— 
and escape before the Indians reached their flood- 
tide of pitiless fury. The Rabbit and his brethren 


i82 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


were but a handful against the united warriors of 
the two villages, and Chief Big-FIorn was secretly 
jealous of The Rabbit, and Dick was not even sure 
that all the young Dakota’s brethren were firm on 
the side of their leader’s friend, the white captive. 

At last his mind grew so tired swinging between 
these doubts and questions that he did fall asleep, 
but only to dream on where he had left off thinking— 
to dream himself off in the hills, free, beyond pur¬ 
suit, or, again, fleeing for life, followed, fighting, 
captured. 

Out of the last of these nightmares he awoke to 
find it was dawn. Already the lodge-curtain was 
raised, and, sitting up on his buffalo-robe, Dick 
looked for The Rabbit and found he was not there. 
Red-Deer and one other of The Rabbit’s brethren 
were awakening by his side. Of the second of these 
he asked eagerly: 

“Where has The Rabbit gone?” 

The young savage stared up at him with sleepy 
indifference. “The Rabbit went out at break of day 
on a bear hunt, somewhere up the mountain,” he 
answered. “What do you need, white brother?” 

“A word with him about a bear I killed in the 
woods last evening,” said Dick, speaking the first 
words to his tongue, rather than pretend idle curi¬ 
osity, which to an Indian is contemptible. 

“The Rabbit left word that the bear was to be 
brought here and skinned,” the other answered. 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


183 

“Before we slept last night the squaws had dragged 
it into the village.” 

The Ogillallah spoke with such unconcern, such 
apparent belief in The Rabbit’s absence in search of 
game, that Dick decided that the brethren were not 
to be admitted to the secret, and that perhaps Red- 
Deer alone enjoyed his cousin’s confidence. This 
The Rabbit’s extreme caution in stealing off with¬ 
out another word made probable. Dick resolved 
on equal caution himself. He said nothing to Red- 
Deer, even when a few minutes later the other Indian 
went out and left the two alone. 

Dick picked up his rifle and began to clean it in 
silence. Red-Deer did the same with his own, glan¬ 
cing now and then at Dick, to see how he went about 
his work, for rifles were still rare enough to be novel 
among the mountain tribes. After a moment Red- 
Deer said without preface: 

“At the hour after sunset, O Brother, when the 
day fades into night, bid the little white squaws 
mount into the pine woods behind the villages. They 
must steal away shrewdly, but once out of sight, no 
alarm will be given until after The Hail-Storm’s 
squaw has looked for them and grumbled at their 
absence and awaited their return awhile. I will have 
a pony tied in the woods, to the north of the stream, 
an arrow’s flight above the cliff. Catch your own 
horse from the herd, on pretence of practicing some 
sport at sunset with one of the brethren. After 


i 84 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


that your own sagacity must find a means of joining 
the other captives. Once united, take the pony tied, 
and ride at all speed northward and up the moun¬ 
tain trail. About half an hour’s climb above the 
plain, give the hoot of an owl—The Rabbit and his 
brothers’ signal is the whippoorwill’s cry, but he says 
you have no skill at that. Wait, then, until a whip¬ 
poorwill answers you—three times repeated. On 
hearing that, follow on up the trail to where The 
Rabbit will await you.” 

Dick, in his mounting excitement, almost forgot 
the Indian forms of gratitude. “How shall I send 
word to the little squaws?” he demanded. Then, 
recollecting himself: “No words can return to you, 
O Red-Deer, what your generosity has given me! 
May your own journeys be prosperous I May yours 
be the mightiest booty in the hunt, and your pony 
fleetest in the race! Tell me, O Brother, can I 
safely talk with the other captives to-day? Or, if 
not, who will be my messenger?” 

“I will,” Red-Deer responded. “There is no need 
and little wisdom in your seeking to talk with the 
Meneaska maids to-day. But they are ill-skilled, I 
suppose, in the Dakota tongue. Make for them 
some of your picture-writing, setting out your com¬ 
mands.” 

Dick reflected a moment, then slowly nodded. 
Fumbling inside his worn deerskin tunic, he found a 
stub of pencil and a scrap of paper. Spreading the 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 185 

paper out on a broad, flat lancehead he wrote to 
Ruth, explaining The Rabbit’s promise, the plan for 
the evening’s flight, and the place of meeting. He 
tried to be as clear and definite as he could, but the 
exact time when he would be able to make his own 
escape unseen was dubious enough. He could only 
tell Ruth and Kate to be above the cliffside as soon 
as possible after sunset, and there to wait patiently 
for him until nightfall. If he did not come by dark, 
they were to know that his plans had failed, and to 
return, with whatever excuses they could invent, to 
Fawnfoot’s lodge. 

Red-Deer took the folded paper from Dick’s hand, 
opened and glanced at it with a grunt of incompre¬ 
hension, then nodded to Dick and went silently out 
on his errand. 

This day was one of unusual excitement among 
the warriors of the two villages. The chiefs con¬ 
ferred endlessly; pipes were smoked, weapons bran¬ 
dished, and warlike speeches, like that to which Dick 
had listened in Chief Big-Horn’s lodge, were made 
amidst mounting enthusiasm. Only the need for 
hunting buffalo to supply the village with meat put 
an end to the haranguing, and scattered the warriors 
for a few hours over the plain. 

It was an interminable day to Dick, who tor¬ 
mented himself with hopes, fears and impatience, 
but it did not seem so long to Ruth and Kate, for 
Red-Deer, having his own ideas about confiding to 


i86 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


squaws a dangerous secret, delayed giving to Ruth 
Dick’s note until well on in the afternoon. 

Ruth was at the foot of the cliff fetching water 
from the cascading stream when Red-Deer, gliding 
up to her, tossed the folded paper at her feet, and 
directing her glance toward it with a sharp look 
and a pointing finger, went off without a word. 

Amazed, Ruth sat down on the ground, unfolded 
the paper, saw with a bounding heart the scribbled 
English words, and painfully deciphered Dick’s 
message. 

At first, as understanding of the plan shot through 
her, she felt nothing but relief and joy, and gratitude 
that her refusal to leave Kate behind had led to 
this glorious chance for all. But, as with Dick 
himself, after the first glow of happiness was past, 
the truth lost its golden brilliance to Ruth’s inner 
eye, and showed itself drab and hard and cold— 
enough to daunt even a pioneer’s daughter with its 
thronging perils. But Ruth dared not let her fancy 
dwell here. She knew that agile fancy too well, and 
how it could people the unreal future, making her 
hope beyond reason, and fear beyond need. She sat 
there on the ground long enough to learn Dick’s 
message by heart, then tore up the paper and scat¬ 
tered the bits to the wind, and, returning hotfoot 
with her water, told Kate in hurried, disjointed frag¬ 
ments her news. 

Ruth was so intent on her story that she spilled 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


187 


the water into the fire, upset the meal, and went on 
talking through all the squaw’s reproaches, while 
Willow-Bough, from her basket-weaving, looked on 
with curious, cold eyes. It was Kate, just then, whose 
natural calmness and hard-learned self-control came 
to Ruth’s aid. Not even when Ruth revealed to her 
the plan of escape—all new to Kate and in conse¬ 
quence amazing—did the old plainsman’s daughter 
give a start of surprise, nor by any gesture or tone 
of voice reveal the tumult in her breast. She even 
managed to smile at Ruth’s clumsiness, and to mur¬ 
mur some excuses in reply to Fawnfoot’s upbraid- 
ings. 

After her first outburst, Ruth said little, and Kate 
still less. There was nothing to be said, nor any¬ 
thing to do except await the hour of meeting with 
what unconcern they could manage. Ruth thought 
that both she and Kate were half dazed as they 
worked on in the lodge that afternoon. The hours 
sped away while each was trying to accustom herself 
to the truth—to what she would have to face and 
endure before the captives dared even hope for free¬ 
dom. Both Ruth and Kate were well resolved. 
Their hearts did not quail, nor could any perils of 
the wilderness outweigh the uncertain menace of 
Indian captivity. Yet during that long afternoon 
in the lodge, fear and weakness gained upon them 
by moments and dread of the unknown journey 
gripped them hard until their restlessness grew 


i88 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


nearly unbearable and they watched the descending 
sun with feverish gaze. 

What if Fawnfoot would not let them leave the 
lodge? What if they were too closely watched to 
slip into the woods? These questions each whis¬ 
pered more than once in the other’s ear. Ruth 
turned occasional anxious glances toward Willow- 
Bough, and did not know whether to be troubled 
or relieved when she found that the Indian girl 
had disappeared. 

All at once, as it seemed, sunset came. The level 
beams shone through the lodge door, touched lance- 
heads, arrows and knives with light, and gilded 
Ruth’s hair as she sat, hands clenched and breath 
uneven, looking out at the radiance of the western 
sky. There was no real obstacle to their leaving 
the lodge, now that the time had come. Fawnfoot 
had taken Thunder-Bearer out for a leisurely walk 
about the village. Willow-Bough had not returned. 
The captives looked at each other fearfully; ex¬ 
changed a few whispered words. When the sun¬ 
beams were flung low, the shadows long, and the 
sun itself was half hidden behind a distant fringe 
of hills, they softly rose, took a last look around 
the lodge, and went out the door. There, after one 
hurried and stealthy handclasp, they walked off by 
different ways toward the pine-crowned cliff behind 
the village. 

Ruth had snatched up a buffalo-hide bucket in her 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


189 


hand and she walked along slowly, as though bent 
on some uninviting task, all her energies centered 
on hiding her terror and suspense from curious 
passersby. Instead of strolling along with languid 
gait and eyes to the ground, she wanted to run; to 
get at all risk beyond the village and the sight of 
Inquiring or malicious glances. Her heart beat as 
hard as If she were running; every random shout 
or calling child or neighing pony made her start, and 
once when a squaw, passing on noiseless feet, 
touched her arm to ask a trifling question, Ruth 
gasped and stared and stammered out an Incoherent 
answer. Each second she expected to hear Fawnfoot 
accost her and order her back to the lodge, or worse 
than all, to be overtaken by The Hail-Storm or some 
other warrior, furious at discovery of Dick’s plot¬ 
ted escape. By the time she had covered the short 
half-mile which comprised the village and the level, 
grassy stretch beyond, she had grown so wretched 
with mounting dread that she hardly hoped to reach 
her goal at all. It was with a kind of numbed amaze¬ 
ment and thanksgiving that at last she climbed the 
rough, pine-shaded slope of the cliff and found her¬ 
self In the woods beside the stream. 

Kate, whose fancy had not tormented her like 
Ruth’s, had come a shorter way and was already 
crouched behind the shelter of a tree In the little 
clearing. Ruth ran to her, stifling a cry of relief, 
and together they crouched on the ground, the fra- 


190 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


grant pines swaying above them, the shouts of the 
Indian children coming up from below. 

The sun sank from sight and the glowing sky was 
streaked with green and crimson. Their ears cocked 
for Dick’s approaching footsteps, the girls spoke 
hardly a word to each other. But though their strain¬ 
ing ears heard not the sound they wanted, a hundred 
other sounds made them start and tremble and hold 
their breaths over and over. Birds settled down 
for the night in the shadowy pine boughs; squirrels 
raced for their holes and let fall nuts and pine cones. 
Every little noise seemed loud as it echoed through 
the deserted woodland; every cracking twig sug¬ 
gested an approaching tread or a body pushing 
through breaking branches. And, though Ruth re¬ 
peated to herself Fawnfoot’s assurance that bears 
never came near to a settlement, thoughts of the 
huge grizzly which had sprung at the young Dakota 
from the cave, and of his dying struggles after 
Dick’s shot, were vivid in her memory. 

There was one sound, too, which, reason with 
herself as she would, she could not account for, nor 
lay to birds, squirrels, flowing stream or swaying 
boughs. Kate heard it too, so it was no phantom 
of Ruth’s troubled fancy. It was not a menacing 
sound—not the muffled tread or snuffling breath of 
wild beast, nor the whisper of approaching voices. 
It was a kind of rare, uneven stirring of the pine 
needles and the dry twigs beneath, as though under 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


191 

a light, flitting footfall. It came again and again, 
sometimes so close that the two girls started up and 
desperately searched about them for the intruder. 
But each time they saw nobody and the faint, ghost¬ 
like footfall resolved Itself into the murmur of the 
trees and the swift flow of the stream. Sunset had 
faded and Ruth, a nameless dread In her heart, was 
silently watching the darkening sky, when Kate, with 
a quick, joyful gasp, caught strongly at her hand. 

“Here he comes!” she breathed, pulling Ruth up 
beside her. Dick, on foot and alone, was coming 
downstream toward them, rifle In hand. His eyes 
lighted at sight of his fellow captives. 

“Who cut loose the pony?” were his first words. 
He looked puzzled and uneasy. 

“What pony? I don’t know,” Ruth answered. 

“All right. Come—follow me.” He led the 
way upstream. 

To Dick that day had seemed unbearable. When 
the hour came for the escape he was so nervously 
overwrought and excited that Red-Deer’s sugges¬ 
tion of leading some of the brethren Into races or 
other games was beyond his power. He dared not 
risk an encounter with the young Dakotas, his voice 
tense and breathless, his eyes feverishly alight, every 
nerve and muscle strained until there was no strength 
or skill left to act a part. In a kind of desperation 
he went out among the ponies and called to Mandy, 
whistling an old familiar Southern air, at which the 


192 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


little mare had never failed to prick up her ears, 
even when, in her old days of freedom, she declined 
to obey her master’s summons. Whether captivity 
had tamed her, or whether she had a fellow feeling 
for her captive master, she had of late grown oddly 
obedient to Dick, and correspondingly mean and 
tricky with her Indian riders. Many a hard lashing 
and scanty meal had been her portion at their hands. 
Upon them all her bad temper and resentment was 
outpoured. Dick dreaded, in his anguish of sus¬ 
pense, having to mount another pony and chase 
Mandy now. He was deeply grateful when the little 
mare trotted docilely up and sniffed his hand. 

Once on her blanketed back, Dick was at a loss 
again. Most of the warriors were still out hunting, 
but there were plenty of idlers about, and he dared 
not ride off by himself toward the mountain trail. 
With despair at his own lack of invention, he circled 
about the grassy plain outside the villages until Red- 
Deer all at once rode up beside him. The Dakota 
gave Dick a nod of understanding, not unmixed with 
patient contempt at the white man’s helplessness. 
Motioning to Dick to follow, he rode back within 
earshot of the others before he exclaimed aloud: 

“Does Eagle-Eye boast the speed of that ill- 
natured beast ? Red-Deer will challenge him I From 
the top of the first rise on the mountain trail back 
to the plain! Down that pebble-strewn slope we 


THE RABBIT’S PROMISE 


193 

will see if the settlement-bred pony does not stumble! 
Come! When was Eagle-Eye afraid?” 

The watchers laughed, or called out encourage¬ 
ment, or frowned with cold dislike at the white cap¬ 
tive, as the humor struck them. But Dick, in Red- 
Deer’s wake, was off at a gallop over the plain, north¬ 
ward from the cliff down which the stream flowed, 
and presently they were up the dim, half-hidden 
mountain trail. 

Once well out of sight of the villages, Red-Deer 
paused and pointed toward the right. “Your com¬ 
panions are there,” he said briefly, “and the other 
pony. Listen for the falling water. Farewell.” 

With the word he veered sharply to the left and 
was off through the woods, striking northwest,— 
seeking a long detour, Dick guessed, before returning 
to the plain. He himself found his way southward, 
and, mindful of Red-Deer’s parting words, listened 
intently until he heard the rapid stream pouring 
down over its rocky bed. Almost at the same time 
he encountered a wandering pony, blanketed with a 
good buffalo-robe, whose rawhide halter had been 
cut through with a knife. He recognized The Rab¬ 
bit’s gift and caught the animal without much 
trouble, but the cut halter-rope was a disturbing 
mystery beyond his power to solve. Close by the 
stream he tied the two ponies and followed the 
water down to the clearing to join the anxious girls 
awaiting him. 


194 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“Where now, Dick?” Ruth whispered, unwilling 
to follow blindly on. 

Dick pointed ahead. “To get the ponies first,” 
he said. “There they are, beyond that big pine. 
I’ll lead the way north, through the woods, to the 
mountain trail. It’s not more than a mile away. 
Follow close. Once on the trail, we have two miles 
to climb to The Rabbit’s meeting-place.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 

D ick led the way up the mountain trail on 
Mandy, the girls following on the Indian 
pony, for Dick was doubtful of Mandy’s temper 
under a double burden. The mountain and prairie- 
bred pony was sure-footed, and stronger and less 
liable to sudden freaks and fears. 

Dick’s ears were cocked, painfully alert to any 
sound of pursuit and more than once he turned 
to stare past Ruth and Kate down the dimness 
of the twilit trail. In spite of the comparative ease 
and freedom of his short captivity, he had no illu¬ 
sions as to the fate that would await him and his 
companions If they were retaken. That dreadful 
fate, he had for some days felt persuaded, was 
only delayed thus far because, in the girls’ case, 
they were of little enough Importance to be over¬ 
looked, and. In his own, because the Oglllallah war¬ 
riors hesitated as yet to defy The Rabbit and his 
supporters. How soon these chance defences would 
be swept away was so uncertain and tormenting a 

195 


196 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


problem that to flee from it the captives were boldly 
facing all the perils of mountains and desert—even 
the peril of recapture. 

As yet Dick did not really fear pursuit. He 
trusted Red-Deer’s shrewdness, and was sure that 
the Dakota would explain his own solitary return 
and Eagle-Eye’s disappearance credibly enough to 
delay a general alarm after the fugitive, and also to 
free himself from suspicion of a share in Dick’s 
escape. The Rabbit’s promise of aid was so un¬ 
usual, at any rate, as to keep suspicion off him and 
his brethren for awhile. Rarely indeed, Dick knew, 
was such a promise made in favor of a captive, 
however esteemed, and without a succession of lucky 
chances he never could have won from the young 
Dakota such a proof of devotion. As for The Rab¬ 
bit’s brethren, they were but lukewarm on the cap¬ 
tive’s side. He thought Red-Deer had quite reached 
the limit of what he would risk in the fugitives’ 
behalf when he covered Dick’s flight out of the vil¬ 
lage. As for Ruth and Kate, Fawnfoot would wait 
and wonder and complain some time before the 
thought of escape entered her head. How could 
she imagine that her two young, helpless charges 
would strike off alone through the wilderness? But 
in spite of this momentary confidence, one troubling 
question nagged Dick’s brain. Who had cut loose 
the pony which was The Rabbit’s gift? The raw- 



Dick led the way up the mountain trail on iNfandy 












IN THE MOUNTAINS 


197 


hide halter was not gnawed in two, but neatly cut. 
Whose foolish or malicious hand had held the knife? 

The slope was abrupt and rugged, the trail stony, 
slippery, overgrown with scrub and blocked by 
fallen trunks and hanging branches. Dick urged 
Mandy on, and she did her best, hearing the Indian 
pony’s hoofs ever close behind, but stones and frag¬ 
ments of earth gave way beneath her feet, and some¬ 
times she slipped back a step for each one gained. 
Darkness had now fallen, but the moon in her sec¬ 
ond quarter shone palely down and marked the way 
a little to the fugitives’ straining eyes. Dick tried 
to keep track of the time, figuring by the long north¬ 
ern twilight and the hour of moonrise, to obey The 
Rabbit’s vague directions for the rendezvous. 

Half an hour’s climb can mean one thing to an 
Indian and another to a white man. Dick guessed 
that The Rabbit would by now have been further 
than this up the mountain trail. When he thought 
they had climbed for half an hour he went on yet 
another hard mile, sometimes missing the way and 
blundering, scratched and bruised, through a tangle 
of briar and undergrowth, before he drew rein at 
last, and turned about to face his companions. 

Mandy was panting hard, but the Indian pony 
was scarcely out of breath. Ruth held the mended 
halter-rope, Kate close behind her astride the pony’s 
narrow back. Dick could see Ruth’s hands rub her 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


198 

scratched arms and her eyes shine in the moonlight 
as they met his with intent, questioning gaze. 

“What is it, Dick?” she whispered. 

“I think we’ve come far enough,” he answered 
softly. “I’ll try the signal now.” 

Dick’s powers as a mimic were poor at best. The 
Rabbit had grown discouraged in teaching him the 
Indian art of imitating birds and animals. He had 
come nearest success with the owl’s cry, but it 
had been practiced on the prairie in the peaceful 
noonday, or in the woodland, strolling at twilight 
by his Dakota friend’s side. Now his throat felt 
dry and tight, his breath was short, and it seemed 
to him that any sound he could make would be more 
likely to reveal them to those behind than to reach 
The Rabbit’s ears wherever he lay hid on this vast 
and shadowy mountain-side. Nevertheless he cleared 
his throat and gave the double cry, as clear and true 
as he could, once low, then as loud as his voice 
would carry. It rose loud enough in the silence of 
the night forest, and the three sat holding their 
breaths after it, in a kind of terror. But, however 
little Dick’s hoots resembled an owl’s. The Rabbit’s 
keenness had foreseen this lack of skill, for, an in¬ 
stant after the last hoot died away, there came out 
of the woods, some distance on their left, the soft, 
mournful lament of the whippoorwill. So perfect 
was it that Dick and the two others hesitated, think¬ 
ing it really was a mountain night-bird, calling by 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


199 


chance close upon their signal. Only when the sound 
was twice again repeated, did Dick press Mandy’s 
flanks and ride on up the trail. 

Ruth’s hand was trembling on the halter-rope, but 
the pony needed no guidance. Ruth’s eyes searched 
the trail, past drooping boughs and encroaching 
bush. Faint moonbeams filtered through to dance in 
a pale network on the rough, stony path. After 
about five minutes’ more climb, the boughs at the 
left of the trail silently parted and the young Da¬ 
kota stood before them, his pony’s head just poking 
out of the shadowy foliage. To Dick’s joyful salu¬ 
tation he answered gravely: 

“Hail, brother!’’ His eyes surveyed every inch 
of the horses and riders. Almost at once he noticed 
the knotted halter-rope. “Who cut and retied that?” 
he asked quickly. 

“We don’t know!” said Dick. “I found the pony 
wandering loose in the pine woods close to the vil- 
lage.” 

As this The Rabbit seemed to stiffen, and in the 
moonlight his dark eyes gleamed. Reaching back to 
the neck of his pony, which had now emerged onto 
the trail, he began to unknot a rope of flexible deer- 
hide. 

“What’s that for, O Brother?” asked Dick, thrill¬ 
ing with impatience. 

“The little squaws cannot keep their seats at the 


200 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


pace we must take,” The Rabbit answered. “I will 
lash them on the pony’s back.” 

At this Ruth’s trembling fear was swallowed up 
in sudden indignation. She who had ridden since 
babyhood, who was as much at ease on a horse as 
on a wagon-seat, to be tied on like a bundle? To 
be borne blindly through the wilderness whose perils 
she was resolved to face so bravely? Even docile 
Kate murmured in her ear: 

“I’d rather not be tied! I’ll stay on, Ruth. I 
won’t get tired.” 

Already Dick had appealed in their behalf. “Sun¬ 
light is a good rider,” he explained. “She is used 
to fatigue. They will both suffer less to ride free 
than tied, and I promise you they will not delay us.” 

The Rabbit said not a word, but looped his rope 
again in place, sprang on his pony’s back and led 
the way eastward up the mountain, Kate and Ruth 
following, and Dick the last. The trail opened out 
through a wood of scattered pines into which the 
moonlight glimmered between the heavy, fan-shaped 
boughs. The horses kicked up the fragrant needles 
with their flying feet, for now all three were set at a 
gallop. 

The open stretch of woodland was left behind. 
The four riders plunged all at once into the mouth 
of a ravine leading sharply downward, just such a 
gorge as those through which Ruth and Kate had 
passed when the village moved westward across the 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


201 


mountains. The night closed in about them damp 
and chill; high rocky walls rose on each side, below 
which the moonlight did not penetrate. Intense 
darkness hid the rough and stony trail, but still The 
Rabbit hardly slackened his pace. At the steepest 
points the horses slid down as best they could; where 
the ground grew more level they were urged to a 
hard trot, and even to a gallop. Blindly Ruth fol¬ 
lowed, the Indian pony finding the way its riders’ 
eyes were powerless to discern. Owls hooted and 
bats squeaked around them, and when at moments 
they perforce drew rein to pass broken rocks or 
fallen brushwood, from caverns on either side of the 
narrow trail, and from behind overhanging branches, 
the bright, flaming eyes of wild beasts glared out 
of the dark upon the fugitives. 

But there was no time to be afraid—at least to 
be afraid of anything but the constant peril of being 
thrown to the ground in the pony’s swift career. 
The defile opened out upon a wooded hillside up 
which the horses climbed, following The Rabbit’s 
lead. The young Dakota, leaning far over his 
pony’s neck, lashed its flanks with a rawhide whip 
if the frightened animal slowed its pace before a 
crumbling ledge or a fallen tree, or the intricate 
shadows of the moonlit woods. At the hilltop the 
forest closed in again—for The Rabbit had swerved 
from the trail at the hill’s base. Boughs swung 
across the horses’ necks, striking the riders and leav- 



202 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


ing them scratched and bruised. Ruth and Kate 
crouched low over the pony’s neck, and Ruth, aban¬ 
doning all guidance, let the pony follow The Rab¬ 
bit’s lead, while Mandy’s panting breath came close 
behind. The two girls had all they could do to 
press their knees into the pony’s flanks and to cling 
to its neck and to each other, as the young Dakota 
led on through the thick of the woods, out onto a 
rocky slope overlooking a valley, into which the 
moonlight flooded down, and once again into a deep 
and narrow gorge cut in the mountainside. 

Was it miles or leagues they had covered, gallop¬ 
ing, sliding, climbing endlessly on? Though the 
night was cold on the mountain, Ruth’s face was 
bathed with sweat, her heart thumped and her head 
swam with weariness, her knees trembled against 
the pony’s flanks, and for the first time The Rab¬ 
bit’s suggestion of tying her and Kate fast seemed 
almost welcome. Her forehead, cheeks and arms 
smarted with scratches from the branches that had 
swept against them; her bare legs were cut by the 
underbrush through which the pony had forced its 
way, and her throat was so parched with thirst that 
she could hardly swallow. 

All at once through the silence of the ravine, into 
which their horses’ footfalls sharply broke, came 
the sound of trickling water. The Rabbit wheeled 
about in the darkness and caught Ruth’s pony’s 
halter-rein. The only light which penetrated the 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


203 


ravine was from the narrow stretch of starlit sky 
above, and the pale reflection of moonbeams falling 
on the rocky wall. Ruth could but dimly see The 
Rabbit’s face, but he said quickly, in a voice as low 
as a whisper, but aloud: 

“Dismount! We will rest here.” 

It was not too soon for Ruth and Kate, and Dick 
himself stood dazed and speechless for a moment 
when he had swung himself from Mandy’s back. 
As Ruth slipped to the ground and lay for a moment 
motionless, she realized in the intensity of her relief 
what dread had shaken her as her weary body clung 
tensely on the pony’s back. It was the dread of 
falling or being thrown to the ground in full flight, 
and of seeing out of the darkness those flaming, 
watching eyes draw nearer. 

At thought of the prowling wild beasts she sat up 
and stared about in sudden terror. But there was 
no sound here but the trickling stream which damp¬ 
ened the rocky ground on which she lay. Dick’s 
hand caught her shoulder and his voice spoke softly 
in her ear: 

“Lean down, Ruth, and drink. Bathe your face, 
too. It will help some.” 

Ruth nodded. She knew that Dick could hardly 
see her gesture, but she was too tired to speak yet. 
She crawled forward, and following the drip of the 
spring oozing from the rock, her hands found a 
trickling stream and a little rocky hollow full of 


204 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


cold water. She stooped and drank deeply, splashed 
the water over her face and hair, and felt infinitely 
refreshed. Then only she found strength to reach 
out to Kate, to clasp her hand and ask: “Have you 
had a drink, Kate? Are you terribly tired?” 

Patient, brave little Kate answered huskily: “I’m 
all right enough. I was awfully thirsty.” 

Dick and The Rabbit were conferring together. 
While he talked, The Rabbit, moving as though he 
could see in the dark, with incredible swiftness un¬ 
blanketed the three horses, and, with some aid from 
Dick, sponged them off with bundles of grass dipped 
in the spring and rubbed their legs with his strong 
fingers. After this he ran back a dozen paces through 
the defile, listened intently, laid his ear against the 
rocky wall, and returned to Dick’s side with the brief 
words: 

“There are riders behind.” 

“What!” Dick gasped. “Pursuers?” 

The Rabbit shrugged. “Who knows? I saw 
hunters from Black-Snake’s village near the moun¬ 
tain trail at sunset, but it is unlikely they are still 
out, or have come this far. I think we are fol¬ 
lowed.” 

“But by whom? Surely I was not missed at 
once! Red-Deer would see to that, and the little 
squaws’ guardian would be loth to confess she had 
lost her charges. Who could follow us so soon?” 

“Who cut the pony loose?” inquired The Rab- 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


205 


bit, preparing to mount once more. “Come, brother. 
They are no more than half an hour’s run behind.” 

Dick helped the girls to mount and whispered 
hope and courage in their ears, but not a word of 
The Rabbit’s disclosure. They answered him dully, 
their tired knees clasping the pony’s flanks once 
more; their thoughts numbed with horror. They 
had both overheard the chief part of The Rabbit’s 
words, and all at once the truth grew clearer to Ruth 
than to the others, and she had no room to doubt, 
as Dick did, that pursuers could already be at their 
heels. In a flash, at mention of the freed pony, she 
remembered the moments at sunset when she and 
Kate had crouched waiting by the stream, listening 
for Dick’s coming, tortured by every woodland 
sound about them. She remembered the mysterious 
light footfall which had come and gone with such 
elusiveness, yet seeming to linger in their neighbor¬ 
hood, as if to mock their efforts at discovery. Whose 
unfriendly presence had been near the captives then? 
Ruth saw again in her mind’s eye the slim, agile 
figure which had tracked her through the pine woods 
the day that Dick had shot the bear; which had 
tracked her only until danger threatened and then 
abandoned her. And in Fawnfoot’s lodge that very 
afternoon, while she and Kate anxiously awaited the 
hour of escape, she remembered Willow-Bough’s 
cold, clear dark eyes watching from her shadowy 
corner. With a sudden throb of pain and anger. 


206 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


she cried to herself: “Oh, why did she do it? Why 
did she follow, and free the pony, and give us up? 
What had we ever done to harm her?” And 
thought of the Indian girl’s pitiless hatred chilled 
Ruth’s warm, loyal heart, and puzzled her tired 
brain. But the fight against the Sioux in the Platte 
valley and the losses suffered on both sides that night 
returned to her mind and brought understanding. 
‘‘There is some reason, of course,” she told herself. 
“She hates us and wants to hurt us. We’ll never 
know just why.” 

Ruth’s reflections were made disjointedly; some¬ 
times broken off short to be later resumed, as The 
Rabbit led the way once more at a rate which taxed 
the three following him to the utmost limit of their 
courage, skill and endurance. If the Dakota had 
been reckless before, he was more so now. He 
dared every hazard with cool defiance. In the nar¬ 
row, dangerous defiles he forced the horses to a 
trot, in spite of slippery ledges, loose stones and 
fallen branches. But in the comparative open of 
woodland stretches, he led the pace at a mad gallop. 
Ahead of her, Ruth’s straining eyes saw pony and 
rider, a flying figure through the checkered moon¬ 
light of the forest. Not once did The Rabbit turn 
his head to see if the others followed; his keen ears 
told him all he wanted. 

Boughs struck Ruth across the chest, half driving 
the breath from her body. Twigs caught and 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


207 


wrenched at her loosened hair. Her legs and arms 
were raw and bleeding with cuts and scratches. 
Once Kate lost her hold and fell to the earth. But 
as Ruth pulled up the pony in horror and Dick 
sprang down and lifted Kate back to her place and 
held her there while her dazed head cleared, not 
even then did The Rabbit look back or slacken his 
pace. The others had to race after him with des¬ 
perate speed lest he be lost from view and they 
themselves left helpless. For The Rabbit had veered 
from the trail long ago and was following an un¬ 
blazed track across the mountains. 

After an hour of this, the two girls reached a point 
of fatigue where they could stay on the pony’s back 
no longer. Ruth clasped its neck with stiffened arms, 
and Kate clung groaning about her waist. Their 
knees were so numb they could hardly press the 
pony’s flanks. Their dizzy heads had lost all power 
to think. They no longer feared pursuit or even 
recapture. In another few moments they would 
have tumbled to the ground and lain there as if dead. 

The Rabbit seemed to guess with uncanny shrewd¬ 
ness the point to which the fugitives could be driven. 
Suddenly he drew rein, stopped his pony and mo¬ 
tioned to the others to do likewise. They were in 
a narrow, woody belt between a rocky cliffside, to 
the right, and to the left a deep ravine. The moon¬ 
light showed no more of the ravine than the shining 
sides against which its beams were reflected. But a 


208 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


steep, faint pathway, trodden by wild beasts more 
than hunters, led down into the defile, from which 
rose the echoing noise of falling water. 

Ruth and Kate slipped off their pony and lay 
prone on the earth, panting and silent. They did 
not remember their tormenting thirst nor their bleed¬ 
ing cuts and aching bruises. They were too ex¬ 
hausted to think or feel anything but an overwhelm¬ 
ing relief and peace at being off the pony’s back and 
lying there motionless. The Rabbit made a sign to 
Dick to follow him. He led the way along the top 
of the ravine to where a stream broke over the rocky 
steep in moonlight-silvered spray, to fall noisily into 
the dark depths below. 

Here The Rabbit knelt and drank, and Dick with 
him. The water renewed the young Southerner be¬ 
yond all hopes. The clear cold draught soothed his 
dry, aching throat, and the drops dashed on his 
forehead freed his mind from its fog of fatigue and 
misery. His thoughts were slow and difficult, but, 
as always. The Rabbit’s tireless example of endur¬ 
ance roused his pride to make the last exertion. 
And one other thing helped him to brave the wild 
ride for freedom. To the Tennessee boy mountains 
had never failed to impart a spirit of energy and 
exhilaration. Among their towering heights, cold 
tumbling streams and rugged forests he was capable 
of more courage and greater hopefulness than on 
the dead level of the plains. He stooped now, filled 


IN THE MOUNTAINS 


209 

a corner of his deerskin frock with water, and car¬ 
ried it back to his companions. 

They drank in gulps and wetted their cheeks and 
foreheads, but it was minutes before they found 
strength to crawl to the spring to slake their thirst. 
Ruth had lost all sense of purpose, all resolve. She 
neither knew nor cared where they were, nor how 
near to freedom or captivity. She thought she 
would rather lie there in peace on the fragrant car¬ 
pet of creeping cedar—even die there—than mount 
again and follow The Rabbit on. 

Meanwhile the young Dakota, stern and silent, 
had run noiselessly here and there through the trees, 
had entered the mouth of the defile, had studied the 
wind and the starry sky, and had finally climbed a 
tall pine to overlook the landscape. After this he 
came back to Dick, who sat on a fallen trunk, lan¬ 
guidly rubbing his aching limbs. At sight of the 
Dakota he roused himself to ask hopefully: 

“Have we thrown them off? Surely they couldn’t 
outride us. And we’ve left the trail.” 

The Rabbit sat down beside him, glanced once 
more keenly around, and at the girls lying motion¬ 
less, then he said, as though thinking aloud: 

“This is a good place. They must go back where 
the trees grow closer.” To Dick he added: “Yes, 
we have delayed them somewhat. They have had 
to stop to pick up the trail. Could we throw them 



210 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


off it?” He put the question with swift disdain. 
“They are Dakotas! Before many minutes they 
will be upon us.” And while Dick, struck aghast, 
silently considered these terrible tidings, The Rabbit 
stretched out his hand. “Give me your rifle, O 
Eagle-Eye!” he said with quick command. 


CHAPTER XIV 


trapper's retreat 


D ick stared at him, blankly repeating, “My 
rifle?” And, as the Indian’s hand reached 
for the weapon, Dick withdrew it from his knees 
with a quick, involuntary gesture, and, rising, held 
firmly to this solitary mode of defence left him, his 
tired brain racked with mounting distrust, fear and 
bewilderment. 

The Rabbit gave a short, mocking laugh. “Does 
my white brother doubt The Rabbit’s promise?” he 
asked scornfully. “Does he think his friend has 
turned traitor? The Dakota nation breeds few of 
that name! Cannot Eagle-Eye read my thoughts?” 
The Indian rose and faced Dick, head erect, arms 
folded, and this time Dick did not shrink back nor 
avoid him. Resting his rifle-butt on the ground, 
he listened while The Rabbit rapidly continued: 
“Those men now on our track are Dakotas—my 
brothers, my people. I will not shed one drop of 
their blood in defence of a white man. The white 
man in my company shall not let fly one fire-arrow 


2II 


212 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


at the warriors on his trail. Disarmed, he must 
await their coming, and, that assured. The Rabbit 
will do all in the power of his shrewdness and skill 
to throw the pursuers off the track, to confuse and 
blind them, to lead his white brother safely beyond 
their reach. Give me your rifle, O Eagle-Eye!” 

Dick handed it over in silence. The thought oc¬ 
curred to him to retain it and give The Rabbit his 
word not to fire under any provocation, but to his 
weary, cudgelled brain such a promise seemed bit¬ 
terly hard, and the struggle to keep it a tax on what 
strength and energy he still had left. His weari¬ 
ness sapped his will-power. He could not think 
and plan clear-headedly now, as the Dakota did. It 
crossed Dick’s mind that if the Sioux warrior, en¬ 
dowed with The Rabbit’s courage, cunning and en¬ 
durance, could lay aside his superstition, vanity, and 
the jealous rancors which divided man from man, 
and village from village, he would be an enemy to 
shake the confidence even of Adam Henry and his 
followers. 

The Rabbit’s next move was to mount his pony, 
ordering Dick to mount Mandy and lead the third 
horse behind him by its halter. In single file the 
three descended the mouth of the ravine and entered 
it at a walk, past scrubby vegetation, over shingly 
ledges and crumbling rock, until they reached the 
dark, cold depths below. Here was bare, slippery 
rock, wetted by the stream which poured down the 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


213 


wall and ran along one side of the gorge with a low, 
cavernous murmur. Once the horses shied with 
terror and Dick heard a heavy body brush past and 
feet pattering into the water at one side. Five 
minutes more and the horses trod sandy soil, the 
ground began to rise, the strip of starlit sky above 
widened, and the damp air grew clear. Then came 
another strip of rocky bottom. 

“Now! Up here!” cried The Rabbit, looking 
back. “Give your beast a quick cut, or she’ll not 
make it! Don’t dismount! The Indian pony will 
follow.” 

With the words. The Rabbit turned sharp to the 
right and rode his pony up the steep bank, into which 
its feet and legs sank, as, straining every muscle, it 
climbed to the level above. Mandy followed bravely, 
though her flanks heaved and trembled, and she 
clawed desperately at the loosened soil. Dick had 
let go the other pony’s halter-rope, but it followed, 
and, unencumbered by a rider, reached the top as 
soon as the others. 

The bank was cut up and marked by clambering 
hoofs. The Rabbit surveyed it in the moonlight, 
then, springing lightly down by outstanding rocky 
ledges near the outlet of the gorge, he examined the 
horses’ hoof-prints on the sandy soil, carefully avoid¬ 
ing any disturbance of them. But where they dis¬ 
appeared on a footing of rock just before mounting 
the bank, he scattered water over the invisible marks 


214 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


and rubbed the place with wet sand. Then, rising, 
he took from about his neck the claws of the fore 
and hind foot of the grizzly which Dick had killed 
two days before. On the slope the tumbling soil had 
almost effaced the horses’ footprints, but, wherever 
a trace remained. The Rabbit marked the spot with 
the bear-claws, carefully measuring the stride, until 
with the fore and hind paws he had imitated the 
springing climb of the bear, and even her slips back 
on the sandy hillside. His own feet he kept upon 
points and fragments of rocks, and, where he had 
been forced onto the earth, he rubbed out his traces 
with the piece of buffalo-robe he wore, its furry coat 
marking the soil as if the bear’s breast or shoulder 
had brushed against it. 

This done, he stood above the ravine and dragged 
his buffalo-robe over the upturned pine-needles, 
making several more claw-prints in the earth below 
the pine-needle carpet. Then, rejoining Dick, who 
stood silently watching him, he said briefly: 

“There is no time to do more. Call the others 
and follow me.” 

There were questions Dick longed to ask, but he 
went back at once toward the stream, by the side of 
which, near where it fell over the cliff into the gorge, 
Ruth and Kate had at last found strength to kneel 
and drink and wash their smarting, dirty hands and 
faces in the pure running water. 

When Ruth left Fawnfoot’s lodge, the thought 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


215 


of taking anything to eat along had not occurred to 
her. Her excited mind was so filled with fear of 
pursuit and capture that the hope of eluding these 
menaces was all she looked for. After that, she felt, 
it would be time to remember food and the neces¬ 
saries of life. That afternoon the thought of food 
had choked her while she pounded meal and moulded 
cakes at Fawnfoot’s command. It seemed impos¬ 
sible that she could think of eating on the uncertain 
and peril-haunted flight. But Kate, less harassed 
by a vivid fancy, stuffed into the pockets of her calico 
apron fragments of corncake left from the noonday 
meal, and now, as the two sat by the spring in the 
moonlight, she drew these crumbling pieces out and 
shared them with her companion. She and Ruth, 
dulled to their own danger by a weariness greater 
than fear, devoured the dry meal-cake ravenously, 
drank deeply again, and felt a measure of strength 
return. Dick came up and they followed him and 
The Rabbit, on foot, fifty yards back into the 
shadows of the pines. 

Here The Rabbit retreated still farther, taking 
the horses with him. Returning alone, he addressed 
the fugitives, or rather Dick, for he did not glance 
at the girls; but they heard him, and for the first 
time learned the full peril of their situation. 

“There is no need to go farther back,” he said 
coolly. “If the pursuers are deceived by my strata- 


2i6 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


gem, we are safe for the present. If not, all flight 
is vain. You must wait here.” 

Dick wanted to speak with and comfort his com¬ 
panions, who clung to each other now, and looked 
at him with terrified questioning. But, after a few 
hasty words of explanation in their ear, his eager¬ 
ness to question The Rabbit led him to seek again 
the Dakota’s side. 

“Explain to me, O Brother,” he begged, “how 
you hope to throw the Dakota warriors off the track, 
since they are skilled as The Rabbit in woodland 
lore?” 

“You have forgotten, Eagle-Eye,” The Rabbit 
answered, his voice low, his ears ever alert to the 
least sound breaking the night silence, “that the 
pursuers guess not that The Rabbit is your guide 
and will therefore suspect no stratagem, knowing 
my white brother incapable of inventing any. There¬ 
fore will they read the signs in their path with un¬ 
suspecting eyes, believing what they see, nor seeking 
a trap behind it. For the same reason, if they pass 
through the gorge following our clear trail, they 
will not travel much farther to-night, for they will 
think the fugitives close ahead, wearied beyond 
power of new effort.” 

“And the three ponies’ tracks?” 

“Were there not three captives? Ponies roam 
loose about the village. They will but think you 
joined the squaws a little up the trail.” 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


217 


“But will they not suspect The Rabbit, Eagle- 
Eye’s friend, when he returns empty-handed from 
the hunt close upon the captives’ escape?’’ Dick 
wondered at The Rabbit’s confidence. 

“No,” the Dakota answered, “for The Rabbit 
will not return to the village empty-handed. He 
will return laden heavily with the skins of bears and 
wild-cats, killed by Red-Deer’s arrows on the moun¬ 
tain at to-morrow’s dawn.” 

At this last evidence of long-headed cunning, Dick 
was silenced, and a vague hope woke within him, 
lessening the dread each waiting moment brought. 
The night air swayed the branches; little night sounds 
of wakeful bird or prowling beast reached the lis¬ 
teners’ ears, but this was all the white fugitives had 
caught when suddenly The Rabbit started to his feet 
and held out a warning hand. 

“They are coming,” he said, and, with a glance 
toward Ruth and Kate: “Be still 1” 

No need to tell the two girls that. They sat on 
the ground so motionless that Ruth dared not even 
move her hand from where a sharp twig pricked it, 
and so silent that even their breath came cautiously. 
But Dick, unable to restrain himself, followed after 
The Rabbit, as the Indian glided noiselessly for¬ 
ward and, close by the rushing stream, lay flat on 
his face and waited. Dick thought he had followed 
without a sound, but even over the noise of the fall- 


2 I 8 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


ing water The Rabbit heard him and, raising his 
head, spoke softly: 

“Come no nearer, O Eagle-Eye! Keep well in 
the shadow of the junipers by the waterside. Let 
not the moonlight fall upon you.” 

Dick obeyed. As he sank to the earth beneath 
the bushes’ shade he heard the thud of galloping 
hoofs, first faint, then louder, then the clear sound 
of a dozen ponies cantering across the woodland 
toward them. Then came a low cry, voices talking 
together, and the sound of plunging hoofs as the 
advancing ponies were hastily reined in. 

“What now? Where are they?” Dick demanded, 
stealing in spite of himself close to The Rabbit’s 
side. 

The Indian answered slowly, his lips against 
Dick’s ear: “They have dismounted to examine our 
tracks above the mouth of the ravine. On the pine 
needles the tracks are faint and scattered; into the 
gorge’s mouth they are plain to see. And those 
whom they hunt are whites, too intent on flight to 
stop and scheme deception. They accept the open 
trail; they descend the slope.” As he spoke the 
ponies’ hoofs were heard again and the riders’ clear 
voices. The cavalcade swept down the steep path 
and entered the ravine. 

Dick drew a long breath and, glancing back, found 
Ruth and Kate close behind him, listening with all 
his own eagerness. Ruth’s pleading eyes begged 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


219 


Dick for silence, seemed to tell him that it was be¬ 
yond human endurance to hide in the woods, ignorant 
and helpless, while every moment would decide their 
fate. The Rabbit heeded them not. He had 
crawled to the extreme edge of the cliffside and, his 
head and eyes sheltered by a clump of brush, his 
noiseless motions made more surely inaudible by the 
falling stream, he watched every step of the pur¬ 
suers. 

But even Ruth and Kate could follow their ene¬ 
mies’ movements by the sound of the hoofs on the 
rocky bottom and by the Indian voices, which re¬ 
echoed against the rocky walls and rose, strangely 
magnified, to the listeners’ ears. Where the foot¬ 
prints of the fugitives’ horses were plainly marked 
in the sandy stretch the Indians picked up the trail 
and again grew confident. 

“Here are they all, and weary, too, O Chief! for 
the ponies’ gait is slow,” exclaimed The Panther’s 
strong, shrill voice. By his words Dick and The 
Rabbit knew that no less a man than Chief Big- 
Horn himself led the pursuit, and Dick fancied a 
sudden stiffening, a stir of defiant pride in the Da¬ 
kota’s prostrate form. To bring back the white 
captive who was The Rabbit’s friend, the chief had 
not delayed an hour to head the chase. Dick now 
guessed the reason for The Rabbit’s indifference to 
suspicion being later cast on him. If the captives 
got clear away, and if, on the morrow. The Rabbit’s 


220 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


return from the hunt should suggest to Chief Big- 
Horn that he had connived at Dick’s escape, the 
exploit would but redound to The Rabbit’s credit. 
The chief, unable to fix any blame, nor daring 
directly to accuse the young warrior, would be forced 
to swallow his rage and to realize the cunning which 
had been arrayed against him. 

The Panther, spokesman of the pursuers, now 
talked aloud as on foot he examined the bottom of 
the gorge. The smoke from his torch rose to the 
nostrils of those above, and dying torches were 
quenched in the stream with a hissing noise. 

“Here they pass over sandy soil, O Chief! Here 
their tracks are lost on the rock again. But the rock 
is wetted and sand tracked over it. By whom? Did 
the captives do this? No, O Chief, The Panther’s 
eyes see clear now. The tracks have been muddied 
and wetted by a grizzly bear snuffing along the rocks 
and paddling through the stream. Look! Follow 
my torchlight! Up that slope she has clambered, 
her claws tearing down the bank and her body slip¬ 
ping against it. She is running away. Perhaps 
Eagle-Eye let fire his rifle against her.” 

“Where are the tracks now?” asked another 
voice, which Dick thought was The Hail-Storm’s. 

“We lose them here on this flinty ledge,” The 
Panther responded. “Straight away is their natural 
path—as long as they go east. By now they are 
well confused by the darkness and lie not far ahead— 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


221 


for that The Panther gives his word; no white man, 
no Meneaska squaws, could long outride us. The 
need for haste is past.” The Panther had sprung 
up the slope and for an instant his feather-crowned 
head showed in the moonlight. 

Chief Big-Horn’s slower, gruff voice now sounded: 
‘‘Well! O Brother! The Panther is worthy of his 
name. But, hearken! The track of Eagle-Eye’s 
mare is not ahead. Why does a squaw lead?” 

The Panther, springing down again to his leader’s 
side, answered confidently: “I, too, noticed that, O 
Chief! Who could deceive Big-Horn? But, re¬ 
member, when Eagle-Eye joined the young captive 
squaws up the mountain trail he rode an Indian 
pony. Of the two horses which climbed from the 
mountain’s foot, one was the piebald mare. He 
had given her to either of his companions, and con¬ 
trived to steal himself a pony from the herd. He 
is cunning—The Panther’s captive! But he is in 
our hands!” 

This explanation seemed to satisfy the chief, for 
when he spoke again it was to say: “Let us divide 
and scour the wood ahead. Here the tracks are 
lost.” 

The Rabbit slipped to Dick’s side, touched him, 
and whispered the word, “Follow!” Dick, Ruth 
and Kate crawled back beneath the trees and, rising 
here, ran after The Rabbit’s flying feet into the 
deepest shadows of the woodland. The Dakota 


222 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


untied the horses, releasing their jaws from thongs 
of rawhide with which he had insured their silence. 
Behind the trees rose the rocky slope bounding the 
wood. The Rabbit motioned the others to mount, 
and, without an instant’s more delay, he led back 
along the foot of the rocks and, turning now due 
south, found in five minutes’ time a break in the 
barrier—a gentle, shallow open gorge, leading down 
into a valley. 

The land before them now was grassy and fertile, 
stretching away to the fringe of a wood. For the 
first time since entering the mountains, the ponies 
galloped over country which, though rough and 
uneven, was at least free from close-growing trees, 
tangled briars and drooping branches. 

The Rabbit made the most of it. The horses 
crossed the valley at a run, and did not fall back 
to a trot until well within the shadow of a grove of 
oaks, pines and poplars. 

Ruth and Kate were as beset with dread and fear 
as they had been when they crouched above the ra¬ 
vine. They did not know what chance might lead 
some of the pursuers on their path, and The Rab¬ 
bit’s hasty command had given them little clue to 
his feelings. Only, rest had brought back to them 
enough strength and courage to ride doggedly on, 
avoiding the boughs once more hung low over their 
heads, hoping, fearing, enduring with dumb patience 
and longing. 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


223 


Dick was in much the same state of uncertainty, 
for though the Dakotas on their trail had distinctly 
spoken of pushing on eastward through the wood¬ 
land, The Rabbit had not yet uttered a word of re¬ 
assurance, nor offered to return Dick his rifle. One 
thing, though, brought a small measure of confidence. 
For the first time since their flight began, they 
seemed to Dick to be riding in the right direction. 
The Tennessee boy could read the stars well enough 
to know that while they rode with the North Star 
on their left, they would get no nearer to Fort Lara¬ 
mie. But now they were facing south, with the 
prospect of turning west, cutting off the corner of 
the Black Hills, and reaching the country of the 
Cheyennes, which we call Wyoming. Dick knew 
that pursuit was more easily eluded in the moun¬ 
tains than on the plains. He himself would have 
begun his flight through this maze of forests and 
ravines rather than straight southwest over the open 
prairie. But he longed to get free of the mountains, 
or at least near their southwestern edge, before The 
Rabbit left him to his own guidance. 

Whatever the fugitives’ doubt and dread, no 
sound of pursuit disturbed the solitude, nor did The 
Rabbit’s occasional reconnoiters behind their trail 
lead to any fresh alarm. The Dakota led them on 
through the night at a pace grown perforce more 
moderate, as the tired horses refused to respond to 
voice or lash. The Rabbit threaded his way through 


224 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


a succession of passes—shallower and more open 
now, wide cuts between the hills. The moon set and 
the mountain-sides were no more than blots of dark¬ 
ness; the woods, shadowy masses. Ruth and Kate 
could not have told over what sort of country their 
path lay, nor how far they had travelled. Their 
fatigue, no longer acute, was dulled to a kind of 
stupid quiescence. They would have fallen off the 
pony if it had recommenced its mad gallop, but, al¬ 
most as tired as its riders, it found scarcely strength 
to lope on. 

After midnight the sky clouded, lightning flashed, 
and thunder pealed in terrific crashes through the 
mountains. A heavy rainfall drenched horses and 
riders, and, with its chill, somewhat refreshed their 
weary limbs. Ruth w’oke to awe and wonder as the 
lightning revealed great stretches of mountain-side, 
valley and woodland. It lighted, too, the depths 
of a ravine opening before them, and showed the 
shaggy form of a bear trotting close to the rocky 
wall. Ruth felt Kate tremble against her and heard 
her gasp and moan with fear. Ruth comforted her 
as best she could. Even in their peril Ruth smiled 
to think what it took to rob Kate of her patient 
courage. She was not trembling at the danger of 
pursuit, nor at sight of the prowling wild beasts of 
the forest. It was the thunder which paled her 
cheeks and robbed her of her self-control. As long 
as the lightning flashed and the crashing peals echoed 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


225 


from mountain wall and canyon, she clung to Ruth, 
shivering and unnerved, nor could Ruth do anything 
to calm her. 

“Kate, what a goose you are! There’s plenty to 
fear, but you pick out the one thing that won’t hurt 
us. Look! It’s glorious, when the lightning shows 
the mouth of the ravine and all the woods beyond! 
We’re coming out of the gorge now, onto the hill¬ 
side-” for Kate had closed her eyes. “There 

comes the flash again! The mountains are on both 
sides of us, beyond the woods, but here it’s level. 
It’s twice as dark after the lightning dies. Oh, 
Dick, what is it?” 

This last she said after seeing The Rabbit wheel 
to one side and, riding past them, speak a word to 
Dick and vanish into the darkness. Dick came be¬ 
side them, shaking the drops from his head and 
shoulders. The rain had ceased and a few stars 
shone again. The lightning was rarer, and the 
thunder growled beyond the towering peaks. Dick 
said, stifling a tired sigh: 

“The Rabbit thinks we must leave the trail once 
more for safety. If all is quiet behind we will strike 
off a point farther south and cut through that moun¬ 
tain on our left, though the real trail goes past its 
foot. There on its slope we can rest. Poor little 
friends! We’ll not have to go much further.” 

Dick’s voice was full of pity, but Ruth did not 
want pity just then. She dared not risk feeling 



226 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


sorry for herself. Instead, she sought to find hope 
in Dick’s words and asked him, trying to speak con¬ 
fidently : 

“We’ll be too far for them to follow us, won’t 
we? We’ll be almost beyond their reach?” 

“I hope so,” Dick answered. He was thinking of 
the scattered bands of Sioux below the mountains, 
of the Crows, their new allies, beyond the western 
foothills, and of the long, unknown road still to 
travel. 

Ruth guessed a part of his thoughts, for she said, 
with a feeble attempt at reassurance: “It’s far to go 
yet, Dick; but if we’ve got through the worst and 
are free—? Here comes The Rabbit.” 

The Dakota said to Dick: “Within my hearing 
all is well. The rain has washed out all our tracks, 
and in ravines bears have overtrodden them. Once 
more we will leave the trail and cross yonder moun¬ 
tain below the peak. In those heights you may 
safely rest till dawn.” 

To herself Ruth repeated one of The Rabbit’s 
words over and over as the pony slowly and wearily 
climbed the first slope of the mountain. Rest— 
rest: it seemed to rhyme in with the pony’s foot¬ 
falls, to be the only thing worth aiming at and hoping 
for in all that dreary wilderness. Would the time 
ever come when she could know its real meaning— 
the delight of peaceful, undisturbed repose? It 
seemed impossible that only five or six hours had 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 


227 


passed since she and Kate left Fawnfoot’s lodge at 
sunset. They had lived through days and weeks 
since then—had felt more emotion than is common to 
a year of life; had feared and dreaded until they 
could no longer suffer as keenly as in the first hours 
of flight. 

The road now wound up the flank of the moun¬ 
tain, amid the dark shadows of rocks and pines—a 
trackless forest of oaks and evergreens broken by 
rocky boulders or pinnacles, pouring streams and 
shallow, dangerous gorges. Wild beasts made the 
brushwood crack as they bounded off before the 
horses’ feet. 

Up and up they climbed, nearer the lofty peak 
seen by the lightning’s flash an hour before. Some¬ 
times the trees grew so thick together, the rocky 
soil inclined so sharply, that the riders had to dis¬ 
mount and climb a little way on foot. Ruth and 
Kate found this almost a relief. It made new 
muscles ache, in the pain of which they forgot the 
saddle-weariness which made it misery to cling to 
the pony’s back. But The Rabbit would not let 
them walk long. The undergrowth was deep and 
dense and soon impeded their steps. And the 
shadowy forms whose eyes glinted from the forest 
came perceptibly nearer when the horses slowed their 
gait. Presently the sky above the rough, wooded 
slope showed clearer. Stars shone down into a 
clearing formed by a bit of rocky table-land. Be- 


228 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


yond it plunged a wide, shallow mountain stream 
flowing through a gorge. Above the gorge the 
mountain’s flank, before it swept up toward the 
peak, shelved back into a sort of rocky terrace. It 
was so sloped that the pines from the mountain 
above overhung it, while those growing from scat¬ 
tered clumps of earth along its ledges covered it 
with a thick growth of gnarled, wind-tossed, dwarf¬ 
ish timber, mixed with sparse shrubs and grass near 
where the tumbling, noisy stream curved about the 
mountain’s rocky shoulder to plunge into the gorge. 

This mountain landscape was familiar enough, as 
the riders glimpsed it in the starlight. But what 
made them stop short and stare in dumb amazement. 
The Rabbit himself coming to an instant halt, was 
the sight of a tiny lighted window between the pine 
and fir trees—a real window, except for a glass 
pane—with behind it, beyond all doubt, a dancing 
fire which made the red, flickering light shine out 
through the green boughs. Suddenly a horse neighed. 

“It’s somebody there! It’s a house! A white 
man’s house!” gasped Ruth, catching Kate’s arm in 
uncontrollable excitement. “Oh, Dick! Dick! 
Who can it be?” 

“Hush, Ruth! Don’t speak aloud!” warned Dick, 
leaving The Rabbit’s side. “I’m going to find out. 
The Rabbit thinks it must be the cabin of a trapper 
hidden here to catch his winter’s game. It’s far 


TRAPPER’S RETREAT 229 

off the Indian trail and he expects to be let alone, 
so we must be wary. Wait here.” 

The Rabbit leaned down to hand Dick his rifle, 
for Dick was on foot now, Mandy’s halter in the 
Dakota’s hand, at which the mare, forgetting her 
fatigue, pulled and grew restive. Dick went alone 
over the rocky, rugged slope toward the trees where 
shone the lighted window. 


CHAPTER XV 


TOWARD LARAMIE 

D ick clambered up the slope, stumbled through 
scrub cedars and between dwarfish pine and 
fir trees, and saw a little cabin, built of pine trunks, 
set on the ledge against the rising slope of the moun¬ 
tain-side. Past a denser growth of evergreens, he 
saw the red, dancing light again and went toward it. 
More than anything in the world just then he wanted 
to look into that window, but the chance of getting 
a bullet in his head as a result of such imprudence 
made him forbear. He did not try to be noiseless, 
but walked with a natural tread, and the sound of 
his (zz'c on the rocks and undergrowth, after the 
horse’s neigh, was enough to rouse the cabin’s sleep¬ 
ing inmate, for when Dick reached the door it had 
already been unbolted and opened. From beyond a 
narrow lane of light, which fell on a rough pony 
fastened near the door, a harsh, strong voice, not 
lacking in boldness or defiance, shouted: 

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Then, 
changing into a kind of parody of the Dakota tongue, 

230 


TOWARD LARAMIE 


231 

the voice continued: “If you’re a Sioux, show your¬ 
self, or I’ll blow your brains out!” 

Dick lost no time in answering. “I’m not an 
Indian, sir, but a white man escaped from the Sioux. 
There are two young white girls with me, captives 
and fugitives, too. Will you give us shelter?” 

As he spoke he approached the door, holding his 
rifle well above his head, and the light from within 
the cabin fell across his head and shoulders. The 
man standing in the half-open door, a stalwart figure 
in fringed buckskin frock, rifle ready in his hand, 
saw a boy’s slender frame clothed in tattered, stained 
and rain-soaked garments, his forehead scratched 
and bruised, his eyes ringed with weariness, and des¬ 
perate entreaty in his gaze. One look into Dick’s 
young face carried conviction even to the trapper’s 
doubting soul. He caught the boy’s arm, flinging 
wide the door. 

“You’re captives—and gals, you say? Where 
are they? Are the Sioux still after you? Never 
mind I We’ll face ’em—if they find us here.” 

“They’re not after us now. We’ve thrown them 
off,” Dick answered. “There’s a friendly Dakota 
with us who was our guide.” 

“Friendly, eh?” The trapper spoke scornfully. 
“Well, maybe so. But let’s get shut of him. Go 
back, you, and bring the gals, and let your Dakota 
friend turn tail. I’ll build the fire up.” 

Dick was so overcome with relief and gratitude 


232 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


he stumbled back through the starlight without a 
word. At the prospect of fire, shelter, and a white 
man’s aid and companionship, he realized all at 
once how tired, cold and discouraged he was; how 
anxious and doubtful at thought of the journey on. 
No longer cautious, he called out the good news to 
the girls huddled shivering on the drooping pony’s 
back, and at the joyful sound of his voice The Rab¬ 
bit dismounted and approached him, saying: 

“It is well, Eagle-Eye? The Meneaska woods¬ 
man will befriend you? Then, farewell I” 

“You are going back now? Right away?” Dick 
stammered. It seemed as though a strange, never- 
to-be-forgotten part of his life was closing up and 
vanishing with The Rabbit’s retreating steps. At 
that moment, with the trapper’s voice in his ears 
and the sight of a white man’s shelter before him, 
Indians were hateful in Dick’s eyes, as he hated 
the thought of his captivity. But where even among 
his own people would he ever find warmer affection, 
more loyal friendship than the young Dakota had 
given him? And he was leaving this friend, so far 
as he could guess, forever. Thanks to The Rabbit, 
he was not only a better woodsman, a better rider, 
hunter and plainsman, but he was far on the road 
to freedom. He took Mandy’s halter from the 
Indian’s hand, and the mare, by way of showing her 
feeling toward the Dakotas, tried to bite a piece 


TOWARD LARAMIE 


233 

out of The Rabbit’s arm before her master jerked 
her away. 

“Good-bye, O Brother!” said Dick, holding out 
his hand. “Eagle-Eye is not ungrateful.” Dick 
could find no better words than these, but his troubled 
voice spoke for him. The Indian nodded, took the 
offered hand in a strong clasp and looked Dick in 
the eyes a moment. Then, without a glance at Ruth 
and Kate, before the gratitude in Ruth’s heart had 
found voice, he mounted his pony and was lost 
among the shadows. 

Dick took the girls’ pony by the halter and led it 
near the cabin door. Ruth and Kate dismounted 
and walked slowly toward the lighted doorway, their 
heads hanging, feet stumbling, and eyes blinking at 
the glowing fire. 

“Here, help them to the bench! They’d better 
dry theirselves. Why, they ain’t more than chil¬ 
dren, scarcely!” said the trapper, throwing pine 
boughs in the rough stone chimney-place, at which 
the fire blazed up and lighted all the little cabin. 
Traps, knives and rifles were scattered about it. A 
pile of skins and furs lay on the floor. A bench 
and table, hacked from felled trees, made the fur¬ 
niture. Over the fire hung an iron pot and, on a 
long knife thrust through a ring above the pot, the 
trapper finished skewering a pair of quail which 
began to hiss as the fire roasted them. 

“Must be starved,” he commented, his sharp eyes 


234 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


darting from one of the fugitives’ faces to the others. 
“Been running since dark? It’s past midnight.” 
Glancing out of the door at the starry sky, he added: 
“Yes, it’s between two and three. I was asleep 
when I heard your horses’ hoofs on the rocks and 
my pony whicker. I’ll just step out and tie your 
beasts close to the door with mine. There won’t no 
bears come that near.” 

Dick answered here and there with a word, when 
he could summon strength for the effort. When 
the trapper returned and offered the roast quail In 
pieces cut with his knife, Dick devoured it In a daze, 
but thankfully. As for the girls, they might have 
been idiots for all the signs of life or sense they 
showed. They could not speak In answer to a ques¬ 
tion, and when their host sought to draw their at¬ 
tention, their eyes filled with tears of weakness and 
exhaustion. When the fire had dried them they 
dropped to the floor upon a bear-robe the trapper 
spread, and fell Into a deep sleep. 

When Ruth awoke up and found Kate sitting 
awake beside her, the sun was streaming In the 
little window, the air was clear and bright, and from 
out on the mountain-side came sounds of pouring 
stream, calling birds and swaying branches. The 
two girls looked at each other with a solemn kind 
of peace and gladness for this refuge sent them in 
their necessity. Their muscles were sore and aching, 
their cuts and scratches still smarted. But hours 


TOWARD LARAMIE 


235 


of sleep had brought back their strength. They 
were able to think and feel again, to hope and won¬ 
der. And more than that, they were ravenously 
hungry. 

They got up and went out of the cabin, and found 
Dick and the trapper rubbing down the horses near 
the stream. The girls plunged hands, arms and 
faces into the cold water, and, drying themselves as 
best they could, went toward their host and Dick 
with cheerful looks, resolved to make up for their 
childishness of the night before. 

“We look better this morning! Hungry, too, I 
daresay?” remarked the trapper, surveying them. 
“Here, Ernshaw, tie the ponies to that tree. The 
grass is middling good there. And I’ve a little mite 
of corn I’ll spare them. Come along now, gals, and 
get your breakfast. Ever eat a bear-steak? No? 
Well, you will now.” 

The trapper was a strongly built man about fifty, 
with red-brown hair and beard, shrewd but frank 
eyes, and a determined, sensible sort of countenance. 
His cheeks were lined, scarred and weather-worn by 
years of life spent in the wilderness. His glance was 
almost as quick as an Indian’s and his hearing almost 
as sharp. His manners were rough, but friendly and 
inquisitive. As he looked at the two girls, Ruth 
thought that pity softened the shrewd eyes. 

“What’s your names?” he asked. “Ernshaw’s 
been a-tellin’ me about your hard luck. You’re 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


236 

plucky little gals, you are. YouTe a smart pair. 
Ain’t got to the end of your troubles yet, either,” he 
finished thoughtfully. And, when the girls had told 
their names, he added, “Ruth? and Kate? Well, 
little gals, the Dakotas make bad enemies, and Lara¬ 
mie’s a long ways from here. I reckon Abe Little- 
john’ll do what he can for you.” 

Around them the wild mountain scenery spread 
stern and beautiful—vast solitude of pine-covered 
slopes, rocky precipices, rushing stream and shadowy 
gorges. Above, the sky was a clear, soft blue, and 
the sun began to warm the air from its fresh autumn 
chill. Inside the cabin the trapper built up the fire 
with careful intentness, brought a piece of bear’s 
meat from where it hung outside the door and cut 
off a thick steak. He gave all his attention to pre¬ 
paring the meal, himself held the skillet over the 
fire, watched the meat broil and salted it from 
an old deerskin bag. His guests watched with an 
equal intentness, their mouths watering, the perils 
that beset their way forgotten. And when they sat 
down to breakfast, cut the juicy meat into pieces 
and raised it to their mouths, each one thought that 
there was nothing to be compared to bear-steak eaten 
on this lonely Dakota mountain, to be found along 
the whole game-filled stretch of the Oregon trail. 

Abe had plenty of choice in his food, and offered 
pigeons and quail and antelope meat to his guests 
with generous hospitality. His living lay at his 



TOWARD LARAMIE 


237 


very door. He could shoot or trap game as he 
wanted it. The trapper’s life, so far as material 
wants went, was easy. In the midst of the moun¬ 
tain solitude, hearing all night long a chorus of 
wolves about him, he lay at ease behind his massive 
logs by a blazing fire. And in the daytime he set 
traps and dug pitfalls for white wolves, sables and 
martens, or shot antelope and Rocky Mountain 
sheep, elk or deer from his own threshold. 

Pleased by his guests’ appreciation of his cooking, 
he began to talk a little about himself. Dick listened 
with but one ear, for in his mind he was planning 
and unplanning his scheme of march, and bolstering 
up his wits and courage against the depressing influ¬ 
ence of weariness and anxiety. 

“Yes, we call this Trapper’s Retreat,” said Abe, 
waving his short pipe about the log walls of the 
cabin. “My partner named it. He left me just 
three days ago. He took sick crossing the moun¬ 
tain and he got the notion he must get to the settle¬ 
ments. So I just stayed on alone a while. I reckon 
he’ll come back when he’s better. Game is runnin’ 
good this year.” 

“Was it you and your partner crossed the Black 
Hills from the east about a week ago?” asked Ruth, 
remembering The Hail-Storm’s description of the 
two white travellers. 

“Yes,” Abe nodded. “He was real sick then. I 


238 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


didn’t hardly think he’d make it. And there were 
Indians thick about.” 

“The Hail-Storm was right! He guessed it all! 
And even Fawnfoot read their marks,” Ruth 
thought, in silent amazement at the savages’ magic 
power of reading the face of field and woodland. 
“I longed so then to overtake them, but I never 
hoped that we really would at last!” 

“Aren’t you lonely here, Mr. Littlejohn?” Kate 
asked. 

“Yes, some lonely,” the trapper admitted. “And 
the Dakotas are turning nasty of late. I’m watch¬ 
ful. But don’t that sound funny now—‘Mr. Little¬ 
john!’” he exclaimed, his face suddenly crinkling 
into a smile. “It sounds comical! I wonder how 
long it is since anybody’s called Abe that!” 

Ruth was thinking now of the trapper’s first 
words. “About the Dakotas, Mr. Abe,” she said 
eagerly. “Do you know why they’re getting ready 
to fight? Dick can tell you better than I. It’s be¬ 
cause they’ve tried to scare back the wagon-train 
and failed. They don’t want us to go west and 
settle beyond the Rockies.” 

Abe listened, with his quiet, earnest gaze upon 
Ruth, then turned questioningly to Dick. “How’s 
that, boy?” he asked. “I ain’t heard anything like 
that. Why, white men have travelled the Oregon 
trail before your outfit came.” 

“Yes,” Dick agreed, “but not so many, nor with 


TOWARD LARAMIE 


239 


their families along. It’s a real settlement that we’re 
out to found, and the Indians see what that means. 
When we’ve made homes in Oregon, we’ll hold fast 
to the land we’ve plowed and planted. The savages 
have been driven far enough west, they think. To 
tell the truth, I see how they feel. I heard a Dakota 
chief talk about it while I was a captive.” 

“Well—and so the tribes are gathering, are they? 
Hum! But, from what you say, your train must be 
near by now to Laramie. The Sioux won’t go be¬ 
yond that—or never have. These Dakota hills are 
their stronghold.” 

“I know,” said Dick. “I don’t fear greatly for 
the wagon-train. The Indians are slow at agreeing 
on any plan of fight. But they’ve fixed things up 
with the Crows, Blackfoots and Arapahoes. We’ll 
maybe have them to face. And besides, I’m not 
sure the train has got to Laramie. I don’t know 
where it is.” 

The trapper sat silent for full five minutes before 
he remarked thoughtfully: “My partner won’t come 
back this year, most likely. But then, the Sioux ain’t 
ever bothered me, up to now.” 

Dick repeated over to himself what he was re¬ 
solved to ask the trapper a dozen times before he 
spoke, dreading lest his words be said in vain: “Abe, 
we’ve got a hard journey to go before we find the 
wagon-train. And I’ve no one to rely on. These 
girls can’t shoot enough to help much, even if they 


240 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


were armed. If you’d come with us, Adam Henry, 
the train leader, and Jonathan Allardyce would 
know how to repay you for bringing their daughters 
back.” 

Dick had grown so used to Indian manners, he 
half expected the trapper to burst into a speech 
boasting his scorn of any reward and his pure love 
of danger. But instead, Abe scratched his ear re¬ 
flectively and at last replied: 

“If they’d make up to me what I’d lose in trap¬ 
ping, while going there and back, that’s all I’d ask. 
To tell the truth,” he continued, looking at Dick 
with his clear, shrewd glance, “I’d just as soon not 
have the Sioux find me here alone—if they should 
track you this far. They leave me in peace gen¬ 
erally—I’m a harmless sort of body unless attacked, 
and I don’t get in their way—but when they’re in 
the humor for catching runaway captives, it ain’t 
always pleasant to meet ’em when their blood is up. 
I’ve always thought I’d hate to be done up by an 
Indian,” he added candidly. “To be killed by a 
bear, now, or to fall down one of these gorges, don’t 
seem near so bad.” 

“Then you’ll go with us? You’ll guide us?” cried 
Ruth, seeing the joy in her heart reflected in Dick’s 
shining eyes. 

“I’ll go,” Abe responded. “Maybe it’s because 
I’m scared to stay here, but maybe it’s that I haven’t 



TOWARD LARAMIE 241 

the heart to see you gals start off with the boy again 
alone.” 

His mind once made up, the trapper wasted no 
time. That day he and Dick worked at packing up 
meat, corn, powder and bullets. Dick did what he 
could, too, for Mandy’s sore, broken hoofs, for the 
mare had suffered far more than the Indian ponies 
on the mountain trails. The start was delayed for 
the girls’ sakes one night longer, and the four set 
out from the cabin at the morrow’s dawn. 

Abe was not so hard and pitiless a leader as The 
Rabbit had been, but he kept a good pace, and 
wasted no hours of daylight. Even the night he cut 
as short as his followers’ strength would permit— 
riding on by starlight and starting out again at day¬ 
break. All that day and the next they journeyed 
southwest across the mountains, through forests of 
oak, fir, pine and box elder, undergrown with hack- 
berry, wild cherry and juniper bushes. Here the 
way was a gentle slope through upland valleys; here 
a rocky, perilous path through ravines overhung with 
oaks and pines, from the shadows of which the trav¬ 
ellers peered up and saw the blue sky far above 
them and peaks towering on either hand. Toward 
the end of the second day, all at once they emerged 
from the dark shades of rock and evergreens into 
light, and, from the sunny verge of a precipice, 
looked between the mountain peaks to westward and 
saw the pale green prairie stretching to the farthest 


242 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


horizon. Around them timid, agile Rocky Moun¬ 
tain sheep were springing from crag to crag. The 
country immediately in front was wild and broken. 
Barriers of rocky slopes cut off the plain, and on 
each side lofty mountains encompassed it, their sum¬ 
mits wreathed in mist. But the black point of one 
pinnacle was tipped with gold by the setting sun. 

“Look, friends I” the trapper exclaimed. “Here’s 
a fine sight! Cheer up, gals! To-morrow’ll see us 
out of these hills and over Lance Creek into the 
Cheyenne country.” 

When Ruth and Kate awoke at dawn of the fol¬ 
lowing day, they looked around th6m for a moment 
in silent wonder. The scene was too grand for 
words, its beauty was overpowering. The moun¬ 
tains were wrapped in misty mantles which, break¬ 
ing, revealed dreary forests, steep precipices and 
dismal chasms. The distant peaks and the hills 
sloping toward the plain took on strange, distorted 
shapes in the desert mirage, and the horizon itself, 
beyond the prairie, changed its outline at every mo¬ 
ment. But now the sun rose, scattering mists and 
shadows. The mountains were bathed in golden 
light, and the prairie, not yet in sunshine, was all a 
soft, delicious blue. Ruth and Kate sprang up from 
their bear-robe to face the new day which was to 
bring them out of the Black Hills at last, and back 
toward the Oregon trail. 

It was dusk of that evening when they crossed 


TOWARD LARAMIE 


243 


Lance Creek, well within the borders of Wyoming, 
and camped on the Laramie trail. And It was after¬ 
noon of the day following when Ruth and Kate, 
grown again so weary that they hardly looked about 
them more than enough to follow where Abe led, 
heard the trapper speak sharply to his pony and 
come to an abrupt halt in the shadow of a willow 
grove. 

On the left of the trail flowed a stream thickly 
bordered with willows, ash trees and wild-cherry 
bushes. Its sloping banks were more fertile than 
the great plain Itself which stretched westward, 
parched and broken, covered with herbs, coarse grass 
and cactus. Occasional strips of woodland broke 
the level prairie, over which coursed jack-rabbit and 
antelope, with sometimes a herd of elk bounding 
toward the shelter of a shallow ravine. 

But Abe was not studying the desert landscape. 
His eyes were fixed on a grove of oaks and ashes 
about half a mile southwest of the travellers, and 
which had just come In sight beyond a swell In the 
prairie. The trees were beginning to lose their 
foliage now, and the space left by the falling brown 
and yellow leaves showed bare branches and bits of 
sky. And through the trees were clearly seen a 
dozen Indian lodges, from the tops of which smoke 
curled Into the cool, quiet air. 

An Indian village! Abe did not wait to look 
closer, nor to discover whether It was a party of 


244 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Dakotas, Crows or Arapahoes across whose path 
they had stumbled. All these were now allied in 
war against the white settlers, and all of them Abe 
and his followers were anxious to avoid. It was 
near sunset, and the girls were very tired. Dick, 
too, had looked forward for the past hour to rest 
and a supper of roast meat by a half-smothered 
fire. But Abe without more than a warning glance 
and pointing finger, struck off due south, to the left 
of the wood sheltering the Indian lodges, and sought 
the concealment of a long, sandy ravine which cut 
like a scar across the prairie. 

The tired horses loped spiritlessly on, and the 
riders, alarmed and uneasy, rode in silence. To 
Ruth, worn out and unnerved, the savages from 
whom they were fleeing seemed a part of their late 
captors, and she had to put her slow wits together 
and tell herself that this wandering village knew 
nothing of Black-Snake’s or Big-Horn’s captives, or 
of what had taken place beyond the Black Hills, in 
the Dakota’s country. But the danger was just as 
real, nevertheless. These Indians had surely heard 
of the general uprising against the whites; were 
surely allied with one or another of the tribes. And 
in their warlike mood no party of white travellers, 
however harmless, was safe from their hostility. 

Meanwhile, Abe had led the way out of the ravine, 
across a stretch of rolling country, where hillocks 
and scrub bushes and cactus afforded a scanty shel- 



Through the trees were clearly seen a dozen Indian lodges 





I 



TOWARD LARAMIE 


245 


ter, then down again Into a gorge plowed by a river 
of which the bed was now caked and dry. The 
horses covered three or four miles of ground while 
Ruth’s tired, troubled mind pondered these things, 
and she had got no farther In her thoughts when 
again Abe, with a quick wheel of his pony, called a 
halt. Hastily backing from the bottom of the gorge, 
he pushed the whole party Into the shade of a clump 
of drooping, sun-scorched willows which grew near 
where the stream had flowed. 

“Look there!” he whispered. “Don’t budge I 
They’ve not seen us!” 

Six mounted Indians were loping over the prairie 
near the mouth of the very cut where the travellers 
lay hidden. Evidently they belonged In the village 
from the vicinity of which Abe had fled, and they 
seemed to have no Interest in anything beyond their 
homeward path. They were a hundred feet ahead 
of the watchers, and a dozen above the gorge’s bot¬ 
tom, but, outlined against the sky, they were plainly 
visible, and their appearance was not reassuring. 
A shudder went through all Ruth’s frame at sight 
of them. She caught Kate’s cold, trembling hand, 
and In that moment both lived over again the horror 
of their capture. 

The savages did not look like Dakotas. They 
were not so well developed, and their features were 
less regular. Their restless glances from right to 


246 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


left showed wolfish and malignant faces, but they 
sat their ponies with the grace of expert riders. 

“Arapahoes!” Abe whispered. 

Suddenly the Indians drew rein. One pointed 
toward the ravine, and instantly all six turned about 
and entered the mouth of the gorge. They were 
inside it before the startled and terrified refugees 
beneath the willows had time to turn tail or to form 
any plan of defence. But as instantly it became 
apparent to their staring eyes that it was not they 
who had attracted the Indians’ attention. Nearer 
the mouth of the gorge they now distinguished some¬ 
thing which looked like a couple of deerskins flung 
across two poles, and, as the Indians paused beside 
this rough shelter and cried out some shrill challenge, 
there stepped into view a figure which silenced the 
Arapahoes’ high voices, and made them pause in 
wonder. 


CHAPTER XVI 


DAVE S GOOD-BYE 



HE figure was that of a little, unsteady, stoop- 


X shouldered man, his bare head covered with 
red, sunburnt hair and his face set in an expression 
of childish annoyance, bewilderment and indignation. 
There was some fear in his glance, too, but upper¬ 
most was the look of peevish and helpless vexation. 
He looked almost ready to cry. Yet as he stood 
there on the rocky ledge just within the mouth of 
the ravine, he brandished in one hand a rusty rifle 
and in the other a bowie-knife which he kept wiping 
against his ragged deerskin frock or his dust-covered 
blue cloth breeches, as though to strike terror into 
the hearts of his beholders. And as the Indians sat 
their ponies, staring with the amazement savages 
show before a person or thing they do not under¬ 
stand, he suddenly burst into breathless speech. 

“Will you go away now? Haven’t we had 
troubles enough? Haven’t we got lost and got off 
our trail and got sick and—and everything? And 
we trying to get there, where it’s most important— 


247 


248 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


more Important than you know anything about at 
all. And here you come bothering and scaring me. 
You go off, I say! You go away!” 

His last words were a scream of helpless rage. 
He spoke in English and his listeners understood 
nothing but his threatening gestures, but, as he 
ended, he all at once flung his rifle to the ground 
and waved his bowie-knife In the foremost Indian’s 
face. “You go away!” he screamed. “I won’t be 
scared, and I want to get on! We’ve got to get on 
to-night!” 

“It’s Simon!” cried Ruth aloud, finding words at 
last In her strangling emotion. If Simon was here, 
where was Dave? 

Her eyes, like those of the three others, were 
fixed on the half-crazy Californian, and at his ges¬ 
ture of defiance all waited, breathless, for him to be 
struck down by the Arapahoe’s battle-axe or bow. 
But the savage whom Simon had threatened with 
his knife easily avoided the weak and Ineffectual 
thrust, and, grasping Simon’s wrist, shook the 
weapon from his hold. The Californian gave a 
wail, though not of pain, for the Indian had dis¬ 
armed him with peculiar mildness of look and ges¬ 
ture. But Simon plainly expected further violence, 
and, stumbling over the rocks, he made for the 
abandoned rifle with loud cries of fear and anger. 
An Arapahoe reached the spot before him, and, 
bending from his pony’s back, seized the rifle and 


DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


249 


held it out of its owner’s reach. But what was 
Simon’s amazement, as well as that of the other 
onlookers, to see the Indians turn about and, with¬ 
out another word or glance, ride out of the gorge’s 
mouth and on across the plain. 

Simon stared open-mouthed after them, apparently 
little satisfied with his lucky escape, for he began 
exclaiming querulously: “Where’s my rifle, you In¬ 
jun thief? He took away my rifle! Oh, dear, our 
troubles never end! Where are you, boy? Why 
don’t you come? Here I’m left alone to be set on 
by Injuns! Oh, what a partner!” 

Ruth, as soon as the Indians were well on their 
way, pushed forward past Abe and urged her pony 
to the mouth of the gorge. Passing the halter-rein 
to Kate, she sprang to the ground, clambered up the 
rock-ribbed, sandy path and cried out, panting: 

“Simon! Simon! Where’s Dave?” 

Abe and Dick had followed her, bewildered by 
her act and words, but Kate in hurried phrases made 
things somewhat clearer—to Dick, at least, who 
already knew of Dave’s flight. But the strange 
figure of Simon still nonplussed both Dick and the 
trapper. Abe could not make out what sort of man 
he was, nor could Dick—who knew nothing of the 
gold strike—guess what had led sensible Dave to 
choose such a companion. 

“I know now, though, why the Indians let him 
go,” said Abe, as he came near enough to see Simon’s 


250 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


wavering, childish glance, open mouth and foolish, 
excited gestures. “They never bother crazy people, 
and this fellow’s pretty near that.” 

“Yes, he is, Mr. Abe,” Kate responded. “Ruth 
and I know him. He’s not bad, though, only silly. 
If he can tell us where Dave is, how glad Ruth will 
be!” 

Simon, meanwhile, had stared dumbly at Ruth, 
then burst out into his usual quick, jerky gabble. 
He showed no surprise at her sudden appearance. 
In fact, his own troubles thoroughly absorbed him. 
His face, though burned and brown, was even thin¬ 
ner than when Ruth had last seen him; his hands 
were unsteady, and his pale eyes held a feverish 
light. 

“Oh! It’s you, is it?” he asked. “It’s Dave’s 
sister! Well, we’ve had a bad time since you saw 
us last! At least I have. Dave’s never sick. He 
doesn’t know what it is to have fever and dull pains 
and not to be able to sleep lying on this beastly hard 
prairie. And we’ve got lost again and again, dodg¬ 
ing Injuns—they’re thick around here, along the 
wagon-train’s path. Now we’re a lot further north 
than we ought to be. We’ll hit California too high 
up. I told him-” 

“But where’s Dave? Where’s Dave?” shouted 
Ruth, catching his arm. 

“Dave? He’ll be along. I couldn’t go with him. 

I felt too bad. I had a kind of dizzy feeling— 



DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


251 

tired, too, and weak. It’s the sun, I think, gets me 
sometimes, or-” 

“Oh, Simon! Where did Dave go?’’ 

“Why, I’m telling you he went hunting antelope. 
I’ve got to eat. Even if I’m sick I can’t starve to 
death. He took both mules, so as to bring back 
the meat. It’s fair eating, when it’s killed young.” 

Though Ruth had found out little, she could not 
bear any further talk in this strain, and, abandoning 
Simon, she ran down the slope to her companions, 
who were now standing at the mouth of the gorge. 
Sunset had turned the prairie golden and barred the 
sky with brilliant colors. 

“There he comes now! Look, Ruth!” said Dick, 
his voice filled with joy. “It’s Dave! I’m going 
to meet him! How about it, Abe?” 

“The Arapahoes are out of sight,” said the trap¬ 
per. “Well, go out and hurry him back. We’ve 
got to be moving at dusk. We’ll travel a w^ays by 
dark before we camp to-night.” 

Ruth thought that not all the weeks of captivity 
and flight could compare with the strangeness, the 
joy and pain of that meeting. She could not speak 
one word as she clung about Dave’s neck. She could 
not answer his questions, which were filled with terror 
and amazement. It was Kate and Dick who an¬ 
swered him, who told him of their capture and 
escape, and of Abe’s guidance. And while Dave 
stood listening, his tired arm leaned on the black 



252 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


mule’s back, his wide, anxious eyes upon his sister, 
Ruth studied his worn, bronzed face and ragged 
clothes, over which an antelope-skin was tied by the 
paws about his neck. At her ear Simon talked on, 
unheeded, while Abe, silent and uneasy, watched the 
dusky plain and looked for the first star. 

At last Ruth said: “You’re coming with us, 
Dave? You won’t leave us again! You’ll go with 
us to Laramie?” 

After a little pause Dave answered: “I’ll go 
with you anyway until you’re out of danger. Don’t 
talk of anything more now than getting along the 
trail. Will you lead?” he asked the trapper, who 
wanted nothing better than to start on. And to 
Simon Dave said briefly: “Come! Mount! I’ll 
stow the skins and meat. Make haste!” 

As they followed the desert path first by dusk 
and then by starlight, Ruth’s wild joy in Dave’s 
presence gave way to sad misgiving. What did his 
words mean? Had she found him by such glorious 
chance only to say good-bye? With all the strength 
of her heart she longed to draw him aside, to en¬ 
treat him to her will; to get his promise to come 
back with her. But no chance offered sure from 
interruption, and she knew Dave too well to plunge 
into her plea and risk a quick refusal. 

Dick rode behind the file. Ahead of Ruth and 
Kate, where the ground was level, Abe fell back 
now and then to talk with Dave. The trapper was 


DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


253 


curious to account for the strange partnership. 
Ahead of Dave rode Simon, slunk down on his 
mule’s neck, talking to himself or to anyone who 
would listen, or intent on urging his rebellious mule 
to keep the path. The fever had shaken what feeble 
wits he had, and he appeared now more foolish than 
when he was well and in good spirits. Abe said to 
Dave, with his customary bluntness: 

“Young fellow, what took you to run off from 
your folks with this crazy loon? Why, I’d ruther 
be alone—that’s sure. Where you makin’ for? 
What’s your plan? You don’t know the plains too 
well, looks like. You’ve got lost already, your part¬ 
ner says—or was he dreamin’?” 

“No,” Dave said, answering the last question 
first. “I don’t know this country, and Simon has no 
memory, though he’s travelled it before. But I could 
have figured it out well enough if we hadn’t been 
obliged to leave our road to hide from Indians. 
They seem to be roving in all directions hereabouts. 
Can’t travel a day without sighting their lodges or 
their loping ponies. And I know they’re in an ugly 
mood. Saw enough of that before I left the train.” 

“But why did you leave?” Abe asked again. 
“Couldn’t get on with your folks, I reckon! Wanted 
your own way? But what use is this fool red-head 
to you? Where you makin’ for?” 

Dave saw no reason for Simon’s elaborate secre- 
tiveness about the gold strike. Simon, moreover. 


254 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


would have told all he knew to Abe or anyone else 
who had patience enough to worm the story out of 
him. Dave therefore answered the trapper frankly. 

“We’re going to California, Littlejohn. Simon 
has a claim out there, near a place called El Lobo, 
on the Sacramento River. His partner died and he 
came east to find another man to work the claim 
with him-” 

“Work it for what?’’ Abe interrupted. 

“For gold, man! They’ve struck gold out there! 
It won’t be a secret long.” 

“He told you that? You believe his yarns?” 
asked Abe scornfully. “Don’t tell me you’re goin’ 
out yonder on such evidence as that!” 

“I didn’t believe him all at once, you know. I 
made him tell his story over and over. You can 
ask him it yourself. It’s not one he could make up. 
And, see here!” In the starlight Dave handed the 
trapper one of the nuggets Simon had brought away. 
“He didn’t invent that, I reckon.” 

Abe fingered the ore-crusted gold and held it close 
before his eyes. He handed it back to Dave, a 
tinge of unsatisfied curiosity in his voice as he said: 
“I can’t see it now. Show it to me in the morning. 
I’m no judge of gold, anyway. Nor are you, most 
likely. Looks to me you’ll have a hard journey 
and maybe nothin’ at the end.” 

“Well, maybe—but I suppose a man can get a 
living in California—hunting and trapping—as well 



DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


255 


as In these mountains. But I believe in the gold. 
You talk to Simon yourself. He’s foolish, but he’ll 
repeat just what he’s seen and heard. He caught 
the spirit of the gold-diggers and his partner’s fine 
hopes. He never thought all that up for himself. 
It’s like listening to a child repeat what its father 
said. You get the truth better that way than if 
a grown-up told you.” 

“I’ll talk to him a little—if he ain’t too dull and 
sleepy,” said Abe, riding ahead. “I’ll not forget 
the gals,” he added. “We’ll camp in that next 
wood.” 

There was no chance for Ruth to talk to Dave 
that night, and, if there had been, she was too tired 
to put words together. Rolled in their bear-robe, 
she and Kate fell asleep beneath the oaks and wil¬ 
low-leaved poplars of the little wood, and when 
Ruth woke it was to see the light of dawn glimmering 
through the scant foliage above her, and to hear 
around her the noise of waking birds. With a glance 
at sleeping Kate, she threw off her share of the fur 
robe and of the fallen leaves which covered it, and, 
stealing to Dave’s side, touched his arm. 

“What is it?” he asked, starting up, one hand on 
his rifle. 

“It’s Ruth, Dave! I want to talk to you! Haven’t 
we time now?” 

Dave looked at her, then at the paling sky, and 
shook his head. 


256 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


“It’s time to go on. It’s almost day,” he said. 
And as he spoke, Dick and Abe sprang up and the 
camp was all astir. 

“To-night, then, Dave? Can we talk to-night?” 
Ruth begged with sinking heart. 

“All right,” agreed Dave, patting her shoulder, 
but he said no more, and in silence began prepara¬ 
tions for breakfasting. 

The day’s march was a long one, and night 
brought the travellers, by Abe’s reckoning, within 
ten miles of the Platte River, and not more than 
twice as far from the Oregon trail. “When we 
strike that, partners,” the trapper said, “we shan’t 
be more than fifty miles east of Laramie.” 

At his words Ruth’s heart gave a throb that was 
nearer fear than joy. She could wait no longer to 
learn what Dave meant to do, and before she slept 
that night she drew him aside from the others, in 
spite of his evident reluctance, and the two sat down 
by the side of a stream, with the clear autumn night 
around them. The stream was a branch of the 
Platte—a wide, muddy current flowing southwest 
through banks from which sprang drooping willows, 
ashes and cottonwood trees. Beyond, the plain 
stretched endlessly away. Ruth tried to be calm 
and steady as she said: 

“Dave, tell me—I must know! Will you come 
back with me? Or are you going on—to Califor- 


DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


257 

All the appeal she had prepared in her mind dur¬ 
ing the long hours of riding and even in her tired 
dreams vanished from Ruth’s thoughts now. Some 
way she knew that persuasion would be vain. Dave 
had already made up his mind. He took her hand 
in his and spoke gently, but there was unshakable 
resolve in his words. 

“I’m going with you until you are safe on the 
Laramie trail,” he said. “But I’m not going all 
the way, Ruth. If I saw mother again it would only 
make the parting harder and set father more against 
me. I made my mind up before I ran away, and 
I haven’t changed it, though things have been hard, 
and Simon sick and useless. I’m going on to Cali¬ 
fornia, to find gold if I can, and, if not, to make a 
living somehow. I guess when I’ve done that I can 
find my way to Oregon, and maybe then father’ll 
know I’m a man grown.” 

Ruth knew her brother too well to plead now. 
Her voice was sad and resigned as she said: “But, 
Dave dear, if you only had a partner who would 
share the work and be some good—a real friend— 
I wouldn’t feel quite so bad.” 

At a step behind them Dave turned and saw Abe 
Littlejohn walking downstream from the camp. 

“That you, Dave Henry?” the trapper asked. 

“YesI What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing, as I know. Don’t mean to interrupt, 
but I got something to say to you, and what Ruth 


258 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


said just now’ll help me begin.” The trapper sat 
down on the grassy bank, leaned his stalwart back 
against a slender willow-trunk and, in response to 
the question asked by his listeners’ silence, said; 
“I’ve been talking to that partner of yours, Dave.” 

“Have you? What do you think?” asked Dave 
eagerly. “Doesn’t he tell the same story every 
time?” 

“Yes,” Abe agreed. “I couldn’t catch him any¬ 
where, though he keeps runnin’ off to some other 
fool tale and havin’ to be shooed back. He wanted 
to tell me and he didn’t want to. He’s afraid the 
news’ll spread too quick. Why, if it’s only half 
true, it’ll be all over the country before the winter’s 
past. How have you put up with him this long, 
Dave? I ain’t got that much patience.” 

“He offered me a share in his claim,” said Dave. 
“The benefit is mostly on my side, except as I have 
to stand his plaguing nonsense. If the gold is there, 
I’ll be well repaid—and I won’t cheat him out of 
his share, either. He worked hard enough to find 
a partner—came a thousand miles.” 

“If the gold strike’s real, it’s one of the big things 
for our country. It’s like passing the Rockies; it’s 
like breaking the Oregon trail.” As he spoke, Abe’s 
voice lost its calm for a kind of suppressed excite¬ 
ment. His words came quick and earnest as he con¬ 
tinued: “And in the last twenty-five years there ain’t 
been any big thing that Abe Littlejohn hasn’t shared 


DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


259 


in—for better or worse, risking luck with the rest. 
If there’s no gold in the California mountains, I 
reckon there’s bears there to trap, same as in the 
Black Hills. Boy, what do you say to another part¬ 
ner? One who won’t trick you, neither, but who 
can work a sight harder and has got a leveler head 
than that there Simple Simon?” 

“Oh, Mr. Abe, will you go with him? Will you?” 
cried Ruth, and in her eagerness she knelt by Abe’s 
side, her pleading eyes upon his face. 

“He ain’t asked me yet,” said the trapper, more 
calmly now. “But, anyways, the road’s free to 
California.” 

Dave, not hiding his delight, silently held out his 
hand. He had not guessed half his own doubts and 
discouragements until the prospect of this staunch 
comradeship wiped them from his mind. He felt 
confident now, instead of doggedly determined, and 
Ruth, watching him in the bright starlight, knew 
that the last faint chance of winning him back was 
gone. Yet in her relief and gratitude her grief at 
Dave’s wilfulness grew more endurable. The chances 
which had brought the fugitives to Abe’s cabin, and 
the trapper across Dave’s path, seemed a generous 
and kindly providence. When Dick came up to them 
with his noiseless Indian tread, she sprang to meet 
him and poured out the good news. 

“I am glad!” Dick exclaimed in surprise and joy. 
“How did you decide to go, Abe? You’ve talked 


26 o 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Simon out with your questions. He’s fast asleep.” 

“I dunno how I decided,” said the trapper thought¬ 
fully. “It’s because I’ve seen so many changes on 
these plains, I reckon, that if something’s goin’ on 
beyond them I want to see that, too. A man gets 
restless, now and then, shut up there in the moun¬ 
tains. I was ripe for somethin’ foolish. Always 
did want to see California—gold or no gold. But 
if we’re to get early started to-morrow, let’s go 
to bed.” 

Three days later, on the Oregon trail fifteen miles 
east of Laramie, Abe called a halt soon after sun¬ 
rise and declared that they had reached the parting 
of the ways. 

“Ernshaw can take the gals on, safe enough,” he 
said. “They’ll reach the fort before sundown. That 
half-breed trapper who stole by our camp at dawn 
came from there yesterday.” 

“Dick,” Dave said, and his voice shook a little 
and his hazel eyes softened, “I’ve always had a liking 
for you and wanted to be friends. And now you’ve 
done for my sister what I can’t thank you for, but 
won’t forget. If I strike gold out there, half my 
share is yours. You can study law then, without 
waiting so long to follow in Abe Lincoln’s steps. It 
sounds like a poor promise now, but wait a year or 
two. Unless we’re fooled by Simon’s story. I’ll be 
in Oregon by then.” 

“It’s a good promise, Dave, and I thank you,” 


DAVE’S GOOD-BYE 


261 


Dick said, hoping for nothing, nor looking beyond 
the kindness of Dave’s words. “Ruth and I would 
rather you’d come back with us, but have it your 
own way.” 

Ruth’s eyes were full of tears, but she shook them 
impatiently away. Had she not seen Dave again 
safe and well? Had he not found a trusty, shrewd 
companion? Were not she, Kate and Dick out of 
the hands of the savages? And more than this, the 
half-breed trapper had brought word that the wagon- 
train lay encamped beside Laramie, in the foothills 
of the Rocky Mountains—halfway to Oregon. 


X 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 

T he country around Laramie was hilly and 
broken, parched by the sun and covered with 
rank herbs and cactus. Laramie creek wound snake¬ 
like through ash and cottonwood trees. On a sun¬ 
baked rise of ground stood the old fort’s solid mud 
walls. Beyond the creek the great barren prairie 
stretched again westward. Herds of elk and swift, 
spotted antelope dotted its surface, over which the 
golden sun flung its burning radiance from the pure 
autumn sky. 

The riders had come within half a mile of the fort 
before a turn in the trail revealed what Ruth’s and 
Kate’s straining eyes so longed for. Near the banks 
of the creek, just beyond the shelter of the fort, the 
wagon-train’s great oval lay encamped. There it 
was—just as they had so often pictured it in their 
wistful dreams of freedom—as they had little hoped 
ever to see it again! There were the long curved 
lines of canvas-covered wagons, the patient oxen, 
the restless calves and ponies, the moving figures of 

262 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 263 

the colonists about their daily tasks. There was 
home—as the pioneers’ daughters knew it—and at 
sight of that haven of rest after their wanderings, 
the two girls on the Indian pony’s back caught their 
breaths in an eager emotion beyond power of speech 
and clutched hold of each other as if doubtful of 
their own eyes and senses. 

Ruth, at that moment, could not have told what 
she felt most strongly—what was the sharpest feel¬ 
ing in all that conflicting tumult in her breast. Joy 
at thought of those who loved her in the wagon- 
train, who must even now be sadly pondering her 
fate;—this made her heart leap and her hands trem¬ 
ble on the halter-rein. But there was Dave. She had 
yet to tell her mother and father of Dave’s refusal 
to come home, or even to stop, though he had passed 
so near. But she could tell them he was safe, she 
reassured herself. She could give them good news 
of him, could ease the aching grief of his disappear¬ 
ance into the unknown wilderness. Surely happi¬ 
ness would outweigh sorrow in the reunited family. 

Ruth wished that her fever of joy were more 
light-hearted, as she urged the pony on with wildly 
mounting eagerness. She looked at the wagon-train, 
still distant; kept her eyes upon it as though drink¬ 
ing in its sense of comfortable comradeship. For 
when her gaze wandered to the great plain beyond, 
in spite of herself a touch of solemnity, almost of 
awe, struck to her heart, at thought of the long way 


264 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


still to go, of the lonely trail yet untravelled. It 
had seemed to her, to Dick and Kate, that they had 
lived in these past weeks all a lifetime could hold of 
pain and hope and fear. But now she knew that 
their captivity had been but an incident of the great 
journey. A quick, hard sigh shook her as she pulled 
the pony’s rein, urging it past the screen of willow 
and cottonwood toward the fort’s scarred and weath¬ 
er-beaten walls. 

Outside the gates, at sight of the approaching 
riders, appeared a group of frontiersmen, trappers 
and Indians. There were backwoodsmen in brown 
homespun, armed with pistol and bowie-knife, hunt¬ 
ers from the mountains, friendly tribesmen with 
shining coppery bodies, their scant garments sup¬ 
plemented by whatever rags or ornaments they had 
picked up from the white men about them. Dick 
called out answer to a dozen eager, shouted ques¬ 
tions. The horses were at once surrounded by men 
with bronzed cheeks, and bold bright eyes familiar 
with danger. 

“Who are you, boy? Where you come from? 
Who’re these young gals with you? Speak up, 
stranger, can’t you?” 

A medley of shouts rose to the riders’ ears. Ruth 
had not strength to waste in answering. She jumped 
from the pony’s back, drew Kate after her, and, 
slipping among the jostling crowd around them, 
dodging and stooping where wide-swung arms or 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 265 

brandished rifles menaced the way, she ran, panting 
for breath, across the level, arid land outside Fort 
Laramie’s walls and toward the creek beside which 
the wagons lay encamped. 

The train was a full quarter mile beyond the fort, 
but already, at sight of the group about the gates, 
figures were gathering at the outskirts of the camp, 
and boys taking horses to water paused curiously 
and looked up the slope, shading their eyes from 
the sun. 

Ruth and Kate neared the creek. Among the 
straggling willows along its bank wild roses bloomed, 
pale bits of color against the sun-dried waste. Run¬ 
ning, the two girls stumbled over hillocks or into 
hollows, heedless of bruises, intent only on covering 
that strip of ground between them and the camp. 
All at once a woman standing beside a wagon 
stretched out her hand with a shrill cry. 

“Look! Look!” she gasped. “It’s Ruth! It’s 
Adam Henry’s girl! And it’s Kate Allardyce!” 

Ruth did not know how she got over those last 
hundred yards. In an instant men, women and chil¬ 
dren had come running from every direction with 
cries of joy, amazement and welcome. Ruth did not 
know what she answered to their greetings, or if she 
answered anything. But she never paused on her 
way, and, as the dweller in a street finds his way 
past familiar houses, so she found hers toward her 
father’s wagon—down the long line, past West- 


266 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


cott’s, Taylor’s—there it was at last—the four great 
fawn-colored oxen dozing close beside! Ruth caught 
her sobbing breath, swallowed hard and, stumbling 
around the wagon’s great, bellying canvas sides, ran 
straight into her mother’s arms. 

They dropped down upon the grass together, each 
holding the other as though never again to let her 
go. Their first cries and broken words they little 
heard or heede.d. They could not realize half the 
truth, but, when their tears came, something of 
Ruth’s long, lonely wretchedness, something of her 
mother’s anguish of waiting, seemed all in a moment 
washed away. Hope and comfort and cheerfulness 
surged back into Ruth’s tired and troubled heart. 
What were all the dangers and trials still to bear? 
She was at home again. 

In her dizzy joy she hardly realized the moment 
at which Edwin and Edwina thrust their eager, 
wriggling bodies into her arms with deafening 
shouts of welcome. Half-dazed, she held them close 
against her, and only found strength to clear her 
thoughts and brush the tears from her eyes when she 
heard her father cry out her name. 

Then it was, his arms about her, seeing his keen 
blue eyes softened, feeling his big hands shake as 
they held her thin shoulders, that Ruth with a great 
pang remembered Dave. Even as she answered her 
father’s short, eager questions, she knew where a 
part of his thoughts were. 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 


267 

“Yes, father—all this time we were there! Until 
Dick came and helped us run away. He brought 
us home. Oh, there’s so much to tell!” 

“But you’re safe! I’ve got you back! And— 
Dave? Know anything of him?” 

It hurt Ruth like a sharp pain to see the sorrow, 
the aching misery that darkened her father’s eyes 
with the words. For an instant all her old anger 
rose against her brother. Why had he not come 
back at least to say good-bye? But there was no 
use wondering that now. She had some news to 
give, at any rate, and its power to comfort was 
greater than she hoped. 

“Yes, I’ve seen him!” 

“What?” Her father and mother caught her 
hands and drank in the stammering words upon her 
lips. 

“He’s well and safe! He’s on his way to Cali¬ 
fornia. And not alone with Simon, either. Abe 
Littlejohn, a wise old trapper who showed us the 
way through the mountains, is going with him, so 
he’ll not want a good friend.” 

Ruth paused here, her tongue faltering. It was 
so hard to say that Dave would not even stop at all! 

“How near is he?” Adam Henry asked, still in 
that strange, moved voice that Ruth had never heard. 
“Where could I find him, Ruth? If he’ll come 
home, he can have his way, the foolish boy. He 
can—can do anything!” 


268 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


Ruth’s throat choked her.* So little still did father 
and son understand each other! Dave did not want 
this kind of childish license. He only wanted—oh, 
not to be treated like a child. She tried to answer: 

“Father, that isn’t it—he doesn’t want so much! 
That wouldn’t help. He’s not angry with you. He 
loves us all as he always did and looks for the day 
when he’ll come back. Let him go west now—as he’s 
set his heart on doing. He’s well and happy, and 
longs to do his best and then come home. When 
I tell you all about him, it won’t seem so hard-” 

Mrs. Henry slowly nodded. In her soft dark 
eyes Ruth read the longing thought: “But if he’d 
only stopped one hour!” Yet she did not speak 
that thought; her voice was steady and comforting 
as she touched her husband’s folded arms. “He’s 
safe, Adam! We know he’s safe! He’ll come back 
to us!” 

But now there was all at once an end to privacy. 
The neighbors among the colonists had long enough 
restrained their impatience to see and touch and 
question the returned captives. Old Allardyce came 
up, the center of an excited group, Kate carried in 
his strong, sinewy arms. Ruth and her family were 
surrounded by shouting, crying, rejoicing friends, 
who, even while they marvelled at the captives’ safe 
return, showed on their own faces more than one 
mark of suffering and privation. Ruth looked into 
brave, tired, grief-stricken eyes, heard fragments of 



THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 269 

talk which pictured to her fancy all the tragic and 
heroic history of the wagon-train since the Platte 
valley was left behind. 

“We’d a bad time with the Crows, Ruth, after you 
left!” “We ran out of water—it was hard!” 
“We’ve had plenty of sickness, Ruth, but we’re all 
better now.” “Poor Mrs. Baker lost her boy—did 
you know?” “Molly Avon’s man died of his arrow- 
wound.” “Jim Taylor had a bad spell of fever.” 
“Oh, Ruth, your mother has felt bad! But she’s 
brave—I couldn’t have borne it so.” 

The voices filled Ruth’s ears. Kate stole to her 
side, and together the freed captives rejoiced in the 
companionship of this great and friendly company. 
Even the bad news they heard willingly. Was it 
not a part of their life—of the life of the wagon- 
train on its gallant desert journey? 

Into this growing assemblage of men and women, 
boys, girls and little children now rode Dick Ern- 
shaw, who, having satisfied his questioners at the 
fort, came to rejoin his friends, to claim a modest 
share of welcome. He had friends enough in the 
wagon-train. He had already won respect and liking. 
His reserve and what Jim Taylor had called his 
“fine manners” were long since forgotten. He had 
no cause to complain of the warm greetings that 
arose on every side at sight of him, or of the eager 
hands that pulled him from Mandy’s back, while 
voices demanded an instant account of his great ad- 


270 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


venture. Yet Dick’s sensitive heart missed some¬ 
thing. There was no one in all the wagon-train 
who had been unhappy in his absence—to whom his 
return meant joy and peace of mind. 

“Can Mrs. Henry read my thoughts?” he asked 
himself a few minutes later. For, as he half-uncon- 
sciously longed for the presence of someone who 
would bring him a mother’s or sister’s tender affec¬ 
tion, he saw Ruth’s mother, quick on her feet as any 
girl, come running toward him. 

“Dick!” she cried, “dear Dick!” Her voice 
trembled. Her hands were upon Dick’s shoulders— 
her lovely, kind face raised to his. She stood on 
tiptoe to the tall boy’s height and kissed him upon 
both thin brown cheeks. Not a word yet of thanks, 
of being grateful that he had brought Ruth back. 
No, she was just glad to see him, happy in his free¬ 
dom and safety, her eyes alight, her lips warm upon 
his cheek—almost as if he had been her own son. 
Dick’s heart beat with quick delight, his pleased, 
responsive smile made his tired face brighten. And 
his heart warmed toward Ruth’s mother, as he felt 
what must be the grief and bitter regret choked back 
behind her cheerful look—how even in the midst of 
her joy at Ruth’s return the thought of Dave, lonely 
and rebellious, must cruelly wound her. She had 
called Dick son and made him welcome, but the boy 
who deserved that name would not come home. “It’s 
hard,” Dick thought, filled with pity. Yet somehow 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 


271 


the pity vanished in admiration as he looked again 
into Mrs. Henry’s face, at her steady, smiling lips, 
and eyes bright and kind. 

He could not say anything of what he felt, and 
at any rate he had no chance, for all about him boys 
and girls were calling and shouting in an ecstacy of 
joyful excitement: 

“Dick Ernshaw! He’s no tenderfoot!” 

“Dick got away from the Sioux, he did, and set 
Kate and Ruth free!” 

“He’s a man, Dick is! Dave Henry always liked 
him!” 

“Tell us about it, Dick? Tell us all about it 
now?” 

They clutched at his torn deerskin frock and 
thrust their eager faces in his way. He wanted to 
answer them, to deny claim to all their praise and 
tell of Abe’s help in the escape, but they did not keep 
quiet long enough for him to speak, and Mrs. 
Henry, taking his brown hand in hers, led him back 
toward her own family. 

It was sunset when Ruth, with Edwina at her 
heels, climbed on the wide seat of her father’s wagon 
and stood looking around her. Edwina, fearful that 
her sister might somehow disappear again, kept tight 
hold of her dress and watched her every movement. 
Ruth held the little girl within her tanned arm, and 
once smiled down at her father, who was smoking 
his pipe, in a moment’s rare leisure, by the wagon- 


272 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


side. But she said nothing for the few minutes that 
she stood there looking around her. Her thoughts, 
after long hours spent in talk, silenced her tongue. 

The wagon-train was starting on west again to¬ 
morrow. Her father’s desperate plan to resign the 
leadership to Westcott and, with Allardyce, stay be¬ 
hind to collect a search-party, had for the past few 
days somewhat disorganized the colonists. Now all 
was bustle and activity once more. The captives’ 
safe return had brought hope and comfort to every 
heart. Their wonderful fortune seemed to promise 
as good luck to the whole train. All afternoon Adam 
Henry went about his preparations with quiet in¬ 
tentness, more silent than his wont, often returning 
as if involuntarily to Ruth’s side to look at her and 
exchange a few words. “I know how he feels,” 
Ruth thought—“how glad and sorry.” She looked 
eastward now to Fort Laramie, her blue eyes kindling 
as she looked, the shadow fading from them, leaving 
all her face aglow. Those ugly old mud walls meant 
more to her and to all the travel-weary pioneers 
than did the beauty of majestic forest or lofty moun¬ 
tain pinnacle along their way. That fort, so long 
looked for, marked for them the last outpost of 
civilization—the last place where their fellow- 
countrymen would bid them welcome. And to this 
desolate frontier of the desert the wagon-train had 
safely come, bearing not a few hardy spirits like 
those Fort Laramie sheltered, but families—women 


THE TRAIL ONCE MORE 


273 


and children—as dauntlessly resolved to found 
homes on the Pacific Coast as had the women and 
children of the Mayflower been to recommence life 
on the bleak New England shore. 

Ruth turned now toward the west and, high as her 
courage was, her heart sank for an instant at sight 
of that dreary waste of arid, cactus-studded land. 
“Then come the Rockies,” she thought. “But I 
know the mountains now—they won’t seem strange.” 
And with brave content her eyes rested on the great 
white oval of the wagons spread beyond the creek, 
on the horses and cattle wading in the shallow 
stream. 

Edwina stirred and looked questioningly up at her 
sister. Ruth heard her father sigh, and glancing 
down, saw that his look was turned back toward 
Fort Laramie. She caught up Edwina and jumped 
to the ground, her eyes following the train-leader’s 
gaze over Laramie’s walls toward the plains beyond. 
Half-fearfully she slipped her hand through her 
father’s arm. She knew his thoughts. She could 
have voiced them for him, but he would have been 
amazed if she had, for she was but a child in his eyes 
still and had never been used to offer him help or 
comfort. 

“Father,” she said softly. “Don’t look back! 
Dave isn’t there. He’s gone on already—he and 
Simon and Mr. Abe. They’re going west as quick 


274 


FIGHTING WESTWARD 


as they can—quicker than we. It’s out there on the 
West Coast Dave told Dick and me he’d come home 
again. We’ve got to get on and cross the Rockies 
before he’ll find us. For that’s where he’s coming 
to look for us—to Oregon.” 


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